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C  0  K  I  >N  N  E  ; 


ITALY. 

BY 

MADAME  DE  STAEL-HOLSTEIN. 


Udrallo  U  bcl  pause, 

Ch'  Appennia  parte,  e'l  mar  circoudu  e  1'Alpe. 

Petrorca. 


TRANSLATED    FOB   THB 

LIBRARY  OF  STANDARD  NOVELS. 

THE     POETICAL    PASSAGES    BY 

Li  Et  Li 


AMERICAN    EDITION,   WITH   NUMEROUS   CORRECTION. 

TWO  VOLUMES  IN  ONE. 


J)ork : 

STRINGER  &  TOWNSEND, 

222    BROADWAY. 


Stack 
Annex 

5: 


PREFACE 


00"] 


TO    THE    AMERICAN    EDITION, 


THE  only  translation  through  which 
the  celebrated  chef-d'oeuvre  of  Madame  de 

'  Stael  has  been  hitherto  known  to  the 
English  reader,  was  of  so  inferior  a  char- 
acter, that  a  great  proportion  of  the 
thoughts  of  the  author  were  wholly  lost, 
or  so  obscured  and  distorted  as  to  be  lit- 

!  tie  better  than  lost.  '  A  new  translation 

:  was  in  progress  here  when  that  which  is 
now  presented  to  the  reader  in  a  revised 

.  shape  was  received  from  England.  It 
was  prepared  for  the  London  Library  of 


Standard  Novels. 

characterized   by  a  degree  of  ease  and 


Its    style   was    found 


grace  rarely  met  with  in  a  translation. 
The  idiom  of  a  foreign  tongue  has  seldom 
been  more  completely  thrown  off.  But 


of  the  author  was  found  to  be  in  many 
instances  lamentably  misconceived.  In 
others  such  a  latitude  was  taken  with  the 
original  as  seemed  to  betray  a  doubtful 
perception  of  its  meaning ;  and  often  the 
most  beautiful  trains  of  thought  were  left 
half  developed.  These  defects  it  has  been 
our  object  to  repair. 

The  poetical  contributions  of  L.  E.  L. 
add  much  to  the  value  of  this  edition. 
They  are  worthy  of  her  reputation.  We 
have  thought  it  requisite  to  discard  a  po- 
etidal  translation,  by  another  hand,  of 
the  chapter  entitled,  "  Fragments  of  the 
thoughts  of  Corinne,"  and  have  substituted 
a  strictly  literal  prose  translation.  The 
incongruity  of  a  poetical  garb  with  the 


such  a  peculiar  merit  was  perhaps  hardly  reflections  and  feelings  expressed  in  that 

consistent  with  the  most  thorough  and 
ji  practical  familiarity  with  the  language  of 
j  I  the  original.  A  short  examination  detect- 
f  ed  numerous  errors,  and  it  was  found  ne- 
11  cessary  to  subject  the  whole  book  to  a 

minute  and  ririd  revision.*     The  sense 


*  It  may  be  thought  proper  to  give  an  exam- 
ple of  some  of  the  mistakes  which  we  found  it 
i    necessary  to  correct      One,  of  quite  an  amusing 
i    character,  may  be  taken  from  the  very  first  book. 

•  At  the  fire  in  Ancona,  Oswald  is  represented  as 
j    bringin?  on  shore  the  ship's  pump,  to  aid  in  ex- 
;    tinguishing  the  conflagration!      This  ludicrous 

error  arose  from  the  use  in  the  French  of  the 

|    word  pompe  instead  of  pompe  a  feu — fire-engine, 

as  in  English  we  use  the  word  "engine"  instead 

•  of  "  fire-engine,"  when  the  connection  is  such 

to  supersede  the  use  of  the  compound  word. 


The  engines  belonging  to  the  ship  were  of  course 


intended 


picture  and  feeling,  and  of  observations  on 

on/t  c*?i?  g _ 


chapter  will  be  obvious  to  every  reader. 

It  does  not  come  within  the  design  of 
this  notice  to  present  an  analysis  of  this 
Celebrated  work.  We  cannot,  however, 
forbear  transcribing  from  the  recently  pub- 
lished memoirs  of  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished critics  of  this  or  any  other  age, 
Sir  James  Mackintosh,  a  few  sentiments 
to  show  the  estimation  in  which  "  Corinne  " 
was  held  by  him. 

The  extracts  which  follow  are  from  Sir 
James'  diary. 

"  '  Corinne,'  first  volume! — I  have  not 
received  the  original,  and  I  can  no  longer 
refrain  from  a  translation. 

"  It  is,  as  has  been  said,  a  tour  in  Italy,   j 
mixed  with  a  novel.     The  tour  is  full  of    ; 


national  character,  so  refined  that  scarcely 
any  one  else  could  have  made  them.  * 

"  She  paints  Ancona  and  above  all  Rome 
in  the  liveliest  colors.  She  alone  seems 
to  have  inhabited  the  Eternal  City.  *  * 

"  In  the  character  of  Corinne,  Madame 
de  Stael  draws  an  imaginary  self — what 
she  is,  what  she  had  the  power  of  being, 
and  what  she  might  easily  imagine  that 
she  might  have  become.  Purity,  which 
her  sentiments  and  principles  teach  her  to 
love,  talents  and  accomplishments,  which 
her  energetic  genius  might  easily  have 
acquired  ;  uncommon  scenes  fitted  for  her 
extraordinary  mind ;  and  even  beauty 
which  her  fancy  contemplates  so  con- 
stantly aiid  which  in  the  enthusiasm  of 
invention  she  bestows  on  this  adorned  as 
•well  is  improved  self. — These  are  t.ho 


materials  out  of  which  she  has  formed 
Corinne. 

"  13th.  Second  and  third  volumes  of 
'  Corinne.'  I  swallow  Corinne  slowly, 
that  I  may  taste  every  drop.  I  prolong 
my  enjoyment  and  really  dread  its  termi- 
nation. 

"  How  she  ennobles  the  most  common 
scenes ! — a  sermon  from  the  quarter  deck 
of  a  ship  of  war ! 

"  15th.  Fourth  and  fifth  volumes  of 
'  Corinne.'  Farewell  Corinne  !  Power- 
ful and  extraordinary  book ;  full  of  faults 
so  obvious,  as  not  to  be  worth  enumerat- 
ing, but  of  which  a  single  sentence  has 
excited  more  feeling,  and  exercised  more 
reason  than  the  most  faultless  models  of 
elegance." 


C  O  R  I  N  N  E  ; 

OR, 

ITALY. 


B   0  0  K    I  . 

OSWALD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN  the  year  1794,  Oswald,  Lord  Nelvil,  a 
Scotch  nobleman,  left  Edinburgh  to  pass  the 
winter  in  Italy.  He  possessed  a  nobje  and 
handsome  person,  a  fine  mind,  a  great  name, 
an  independent  fortune ;  but  his  health  was 
impaired  ;  and  the  physicians,  fearing  that  his 
lungs  were  affected,  prescribed  the  air  of  the 
south.  He  followed  their  advice  though  with 
little  interest  in  his  own  recovery,  hoping,  at 
least,  to  find  some  amusement  in  the  varied 
objects  he  was  about  to  behold.  That  heavi- 
est of  all  afflictions,  the  loss  of  a  father,  was 
the  cause  of  his  malady.  The  remorse  inspir- 
ed by  scrupulous  delicacy  still  more  embitter- 
ed his  regret  and  haunted  his  imagination. 
When  we  suffer  we  readily  convince  ourselves 
that  we  are  guilty,  and  violent  griefs  bring 
pangs  even  to  the  conscience  itself. 

At  five-and-twenty  he  was  already  tired  of 
life  ;  he  judged  the  future  by  the  past,  and  his 
wounded  sensibility  was  no  longer  alive  to 
the  illusions  of  the  heart.  No  one  could  be 
more  kind  and  devoted  to  his  friends  ;  yet 
not  even  the  good  he  effected  gave  him  one 
sensation  of  pleasure.  He  constantly  sacri- 
ficed his  tastes  to  those  of  others ;  but  this 
total  forgetfulness  of  self  could  not  be  explain- 
ed by  generosity  alone ;  it  was  often  to  be 
attributed  to  a  degree  of  melancholy,  which 
rer.dered  him  careless  of  his  own  doom.  The 
indifferent  considered  this  mood  extremely 
graceful ;  but  those  who  loved  him  felt  that 
he  gave  himself  to  the  happiness  of  others, 
like  a  man  who  hoped  for  none  himself;  and 


they  almost  repined  at  receiving  felicity  from  j 
one  on  whom  they  could  never  bestow  it. 

Yet  his  natural  disposition  was  versatile,  j 
sensitive    and    impassioned  ;  uniting   all    the  ' 
qualities  which  could  excite  himself  or  others  , 
but  misfortune  and  repentance  had  rendered 
him  timid,  and  he  thought  to  disarm,  by  ex- 
acting nothing  from,  fate.     He  trusted  to  find, 
in  a  firm  adherence  to  his  duties,  and  a  re- 
nouncement  of   all    enjoyments, .  a  security  j 
against  the  sorrows  which  had  distracted  him. 
No   pleasures  of  the  world  seemed  to   him 
worth  the  risk  of  its  pains  ;  but  when  we  are 
capable  of  feeling  them,  by  what  mode  of  life 
can  we  hope  to  escape  them  ? 

Lord  Nelvil  flattered  himself  that  he  should 
quit  Scotland  without  regret,  as  he  had  re-  j 
mained  there  without  pleasure  ;  but  it  is  not  : 
thus  with  sensitive  imaginations ;  he  did  not  ; 
suspect  the  strength  of  the  ties  which  bound  ; 
him  to  the  very  scene  of  his  miseries,  the  j 
home  of  his  father.     There  were  apartments 
which  he  could  not  approach  without  a  shud- 
der, and  yet,  when  he  had  resolved  to  quit 
them,  he  felt  more  lonely  than  ever.     A  sen- 
sation of  desolateness  stole  over  his  heart ; 
he  could  no  longer  weep ;  he  could  no  more 
recall  those  little  local  associations  which  so 
deeply  touched  him  ;  his  recollections  had  less 
of  life  ;  they  belonged  not  to  the  objects  that  j 
surrounded  him.     He  did  not  think  the  less  of  j 
him  whom  he  mourned,  but  he  found  it  more 
difficult  to  recall  his  presence. 

Sometimes,  too,  he  reproached  himself  for 
abandoning  the  place  where  his  father  had 
dwelt.  "Who  knows,"  would  he  sigh,  "it 


CORIXNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


the  shades  of  the  dead  can  follow  the  objects 
of  their  affection  ?  They  may  not  be  permit- 
ted ta  wander  beyond  the  spots  where  their 
ashes  repose !  Perhaps,  at  this  moment,  my 
father  deplores  mine  absence,  powerless  to 
recall  me.  Alas !  may  not  a  host  of  wild 
events  have  persuaded  him  that  I  have  be- 
trayed his  tenderness,  turned  rebel  to  my 
country,  to  his  will,  and  all  that  is  sacreo!  on 
earth  V  These  remembrances  occasioned 
him  such  insupportable  despair,  that,  far  from 
daring  to  confide  them  in  any  one,  he  dreaded 
even  to  sound  their  depths  himself;  so  easy 
is  it,  out  of  our  own  reflections,  to  create  ir- 
reparable evils ! 

It  is  a  greater  trial  to  leave  one's  country, 
when  one  must  cross  the  sea.  There  is  such 
solemnity  in  a  pilgrimage,  the  first  steps  of 
which  are  on  the  ocean.  It  seems  as  if  a  gulf 
were  opening  behind  you,  and  your  return  he- 
coming  impossible  ;  besides,  the  sight  of  the 
main  always  profoundly  impresses  us,  as  the 
image  of  that  infinitude  which  perpetually  at- 
tracts the  soul,  in  which  thought  ever  feels 
herself  lost.  Oswald,  leaning  near  the  helrn, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  waves,  appeared  perfect- 
ly calm.  Pride  and  diffidence  generally  pre- 
vented his  betraying  his  emotions  even  before 
his  friends  ;  but  sad  feelings  struggled  within. 
He,  thought  on  the  time  when  that  spectacle 
animated  his  youth  with  a  desire  to  cleave  the 
billows  and  measure  his  strength  with  theirs. 

"  Why,"  he  bitterly  mused,  "  why  thus  con- 
stantly yield  to  meditation  1  How  much  plea- 
sure is  there  in  active  life,  in  those  violent 
exertions  that  make  us  feel  the  energy  of  ex- 
istence !  death  itself,  then,  is  looked  on  as  but 
an.  event,  perhaps  glorious  ;  at  least  sudden, 
and  not  preceded  hy  decay ;  but  that  death 
which  finds  us  without  being  bravely  sought, — 
that  gloomy  death  which  steals  from  you,  in  a 
night,  all  you  held  dear,  which  mocks  your 
regrets,  repulses  your  supplications,  and  piti- 
lessly opposes  to  your  desire  the  eternal  laws 
of  time  and  nature, — that  death  inspires  a 
kind  of  contempt  for  human  destiny,  for  the 
impotence  of  grief,  and  all  the  vain  efforts 
that  wreck  themselves  against  necessity." 

Such  were  the  thoughts  by  which  Oswald 
was  haunted.  The  vivacity  of  youth  was 
united  with  the  reflection  of  age.  He  gave 
himself  up  to  feelings  which  might  have  oc- 
cupied the  mind  of  his  father  in  his  last  hours, 
and  infused  the  ardor  of  five-and-twenty  into 
the  melancholy  contemplations  of  declining 
years.  He  was  weary  of  everything;  yet, 
nevertheless,  lamented  the  loss  of  happiness 
as  if  he  was  still  alive  to  its  illusions. 
>  This  inconsistency,  entirely  at  variance 
with  the  will  of  nature,  disordered  the  depths 
of  his  soul ;  but  his  manners  were  ever  gentle 


and  harmonious ;  nay,  his  grief,  far  *rom  in- 
juring his  temper,  taught  him  a  still  greater 
degree  of  consideration  and  kindness  for 
others. 

Twice  or  thrice  in  the  voyage  from  Har- 
wich to  Kmden  the  sea  threatened  a  storm. 
Nelvil  directed  the  sailors,  cheered  the  passen- 
gers; and  when  toiling  at  the  ropes  himself, 
or  taking  for  a  while  the  helmsman's  place, 
there  was  a  vigor  and  address  in  what  he  did, 
which  could  not  be  regarded  as  the  simple 
effect  of  personal  strength  and  activity,  for 
mind  pervaded  it  all. 

When  they  were  about  to  part,  all  onboard  j 
crowded  round  him  to  take   leave,  thanking  j 
him  for  a  thousand  good  offices,  which  he  had  j 
forgotten  :  sometimes  it  was  a  child  that  he  i 
had  caressed  and  amused;  more  frequently,  !l 
some  old  man  whose  steps  he  had  supported  ;! 
while  the  wind  rocked  the  vessel.     A  greater  ; 
absence  of  personal  feeling  was  scarce  ever  | 
known.     His  voyage  had  passed  without  his  ' 
having  devoted  a  moment  to  himself;  he  gave  j 
up  his  time  to  others,  with  a  melancholy  be-  j 
nevolence.      As  he   quitted    the    vessel   the  i 
whole    crew   cried,   almost   with   one   voice, 
"  God  bless  you,  my  Lord  !  we  wish  you  bet- 
ter!"    Yet  Oswald  hnd  not  once  complained 
of  his  sufferings ;  and  the  persons  of  a  high- 
er class,  who  crossed  with  him,  had  said  not 
a  word  on  this  subject ;  but  the  common  peo- 
ple, in  whom  their  superiors  so  rarely  confide, 
are  wont  to  detect  the  truth  without  the  aid  of 
words :  they  pity  you  when  you  suffer,  though 
ignorant  of  the  cause ;  and  their  spontaneous 
sympathy  is  unmixed  either  with  censure  or  i 
advice. 


CHAPTER  II. 

TRAVELLING,  say  what  we  will,  is  one  of 
the  saddest  pleasures  in  life.  If  you  ever  feel 
at  ease  in  a  strange  place,  it  is  because  you 
have  begun  to  make  it  your  home ;  but  to  tra- 
verse unknown  lands,  to  hear  a  language 
which  you  hardly  comprehend,  to  look  on 
faces  unconnected  with  either  your  past  or 
future,  this  is  solitude  without  repose  or  dig- 
nity ;  for  the  hurry  to  arrive  where  no  one 
awaits  you,  that  agitation  whose  sole  cause  is 
curiosity,  lessens  you  in  your  own  esteem., 
until  new  objects  can  become  bound  to  you 
by  some  sweet  links  of  sentiment  and  habit. 

Oswald  felt  his  despondency  redoubled  in 
crossing  Germany  to  reach  Italy,  obliged  by 


F 


CORINXE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


war  to  avoid  France  and  its  frontiers,  as  well 
as  the  troops,  who  rendered  the  roads  impas- 
sable. This  necessity  for  attending  to  detail, 
and  taking,  almost  every  instant,  a  new  reso- 
lution, was  utterly  insuiferable.  His  health, 
instead  of  improving,  often  obliged  him  to  stop, 
while  he  longed  to  arrive  at  some  other  place, 
or  at  least  to  fly  from  where  he  was.  He  took 
the  least  possible  care  of  his  constitution ; 
accusing  himself  as  culpable,  with  but  too 
great  severity.  If  he  wished  still  to  live,  it 
was  but  for  the  defence  of  his  country. 

"  My  native  land,"  would  he  sigh — "  has  it 
not  a  parental  right  over  me  1  but  I  want  pow- 
er to  serve  it  usefully.  I  must  not  offer  it  the 
feeble  existence  which  I  drag  towards  the  sun, 
to  beg  of  him  some  principle  of  life,  that  may 
struggle  against  my  woes.  None  but  a  father 
could  receive  me  thus,  and  love  me  the  -more, 
the  more  I  was  deserted  by  nature  and  by  fate." 

He  had  flattered  himself  that  a  continual 
change  of  external  objects  would  somewhat 
divert  his  fancy  from  its  usual  routine  ;  but  he 
could  not,  at  first,  realize  this  effect.  It  is 
necessary,  after  any  great  loss,  to  familiarise 
ourselves  afresh  with  all  that  had  surrounded 
us,  accustom  ourselves  again  even  to  familiar 
fa»«s,  to  the  house  in  which  we  live,  and  the 
daily  habits  which  we  must  resume  :  every 
such  effort  jars  fearfully  on  the  heart;  and 
nothing  so  multiplies  them  as  travelling  from 
one  scene  to  another. 

Oswald's  only  pleasure  was  exploring  the 
Tyrol,  on  a  horse  which  he  had  brought  from 
Scotland  and  who  climbed  the  hills  at  a  gallop. 
The  astonished  peasants  began  by  shrieking 
with  fright,  as  they  saw  him  borne  along  the 
precipice's  edge,  and  ended  by  clapping  their 
hands  in  admiration  of  his  dexterity,  grace, 
and  courage.  He  loved  the  sense  of  danger. 
It  threw  off  the  weight  of  grief  and  recon- 
ciled him  for  the  instant  with  that  life  which 
he  thus  seemed  to  rescue,  and  which  it  would 
have  been  so  easy  to  lose. 


CHAPTER  III. 

AT  Inspruck,  where  he  stayed  for  some 
time,  in  the  house  of  a  banker,  Oswald  was 
much  interested  by  the  history  of  Count  d'Er- 
feuil,  a  French  emigrant,  who  had  sustained 
the  total  loss  of  an  immense  fortune  with  per- 
fect serenity.  By  his  musical  talents  he 
had  maintained  himself  and  an  aged  uncle, 
over  whom  he  watched  till  the  good  man's 


death,  constantly  refusing  the  pecuniary  aid 
which  had  been  pressed  on  him.  He  had  dis- 
played the  rqost  brilliant  valor — that  of  France 
— during  the  war,  and  an  unchangeable  gaiety 
in  the  midst  of  reverses.  He  was  anxious  to 
visit  Rome,  that  he  might  find  a  relative, 
whose  heir  he  expected  to  become ;  and  wish- 
ed for  a  companion,  or  rather  a  friend,  with 
whom  to  make  the  journey  agreeably. 

Lord  Nelvil's  saddest  recollections  were 
attached  to  France  ;  yet  he  was  exempt  from 
the  prejudices  which  divided  the  two  nations. 
One  Frenchman  had  been  his  intimate  friend 
in  whom  he  had  found  an  union  of  the  most 
estimable  qualities.  He  therefore  ofiered, 
through  the  narrator  of  Count  d'Erfeuil's 
story,  to  take  this  noble  and  unfortunate  young 
man  with  him  to  Italy.  The  banker  in  an 
hour  informed  him  that  his  proposal  was 
gratefully  accepted.  Oswald  rejoiced  in  ren- 
dering this  service  to  another,  though  it  cost 
him  much  to  resign  his  seclusion  ;  and  his  re- 
serve suffered  greatly  at  the  prospect  of  find- 
ing himself  thus  thrown  on  the  society  of  a 
man  he  did  not  kno%v. 

He  shortly  received  a  visit  of  thanks  from 
the  Count,  who  possessed  an  elegant  manner, 
ready  politeness,  and  good  taste ;  from  the 
first  appearing  perfectly  at  his  ease,  Every 
one,  on  seeing  him,  wondered  at  what  he  had 
undergone  :  for  he  bore  his  lot  with  a  courage 
approaching  to  forgetfulness.  There  was  a 
liveliness  in  his  conversation  truly  admirable, 
while  he  spoke  of  his  own  misfortunes  ;  though 
less  so,  it  must  be  owned,  when  extended  to 
other  subjects. 

"  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  your  Lordship." 
said  he,  "for  transporting  me  from  Germany, 
of  which  I  am  tired  to^death."     "  And  yet," 
replied  Nelvil,  "you  are  universally  beloved 
and  respected  here."     "  I  h'ave  friends,  in- 
deed, whom  I  shall  sincerely  regret ;  for  in 
this  country  or.e  meets  none  but  the  best  of 
people  :  only  I  don't  know  a  word  of  German, 
and  you  will  confess  that  it  were  a  long  and 
tedious  task  to  learn  it.     Since  I  had  the  ill- 
luck  to  lose  my  uncle,  I  have  not  known  what 
to  do  with  my  leisure  :  while  I  had  to  attend 
on  him,  that  filled  up  my  time ;  but  now  the 
four-and-twenty  hours  hang   heavily  on   my 
hands."     "  The  delicacy  of  your  conduct  to- 
wards  your   kinsman,   Count,"  said    Nelvil, 
"  has  impressed  me  with  the  deepest  regard 
for   you."     "  I   did  no   mere  than  my  duty,  j 
Poor  man!  he  had  lavished  his  favors  on  my  ; 
childhood.     I  could  never  have  left  him,  had  j 
he  lived  to  be  a  hundred  ;  but  'tis  well  for  him  ! 
that  he's  gone  ;  'twere  well  for  me  to  be  with   j 
him,"  he  added,  laughing,  "  for  I've  little  to 
hope  in  this  world.     I  did  my  best,  during  the 
war,  to  get  killed  ;  but  since  fate  would  spare 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


me,  I  mast  live  on  as  I  may."  "  I  shall  congra- 
tulate myself  on  coming  hither,"  answered 
Nelvil,  "  should  you  do  well  in  Rome  ;  and 

if "  "  Oh  Heaven  !"  interrupted  d'Erfeuil, 

I  do  well  enough  everywhere ;  while  we 
are  young  and  cheerful,  all  things  find  their 
level.  'Tis  neither  from  books  nor  from  medi- 
tation that  I  have  acquired  my  philosophy, 
but  from  being  used  to  the  world  and  its  mis- 
haps ;  nay,  you  see,  my  lord,  I  have  some 
reason  for  trusting  to  chance,  since  I  owe  to  j 
it  the  opportunity  of  travelling  with  you."  j 
The  Count  then  agreed  on  the  hour  for  setting 
forth  next  day,  and  with  a  graceful  bow,  de- 
parted. After  the  mere  interchange  of  civil- 
ities with  which  their  journey  commenced, 
Oswald  remained  silent  for  some  hours ;  but 
perceiving  that  this  fatigued  his  fellow  travel- 
ler, he  asked  him  if  he  anticipated  much 
pleasure  in  his  visit  to  Italy.  "  Oh,"  replied 
the  Count,  "  I  know  what  to  expect,  and  don't 
look  forward  to  the  least  amusement.  A 
frierd  of  mine  passed  six  months  there,  and 
tells  me  that  there  is  not  a  French  province 
without  a  better  theatre,  and  more  agreeable 
society,  than  Rome  ;  but  in  that  ancient  capi- 
tal of  the  world  I  shall  be  sure  to  find  some 
of  my  countrymen  to  chat,  with ;  and  that  is 
all  I  require."  "Then  you  have  not  been 
tempted  to  learn  Italian1?"  "No,  that  was 
never  included  in  the  plan  of  my  studies,"  he 
answered,  with  so  serious  an  air,  that  one 
might  have  thought  him  expressing  a  resolu- 
tion founded  on  the  gravest  motives.  "The 
fact  is,"  he  continued,  "that  I  like  no  people 
but  the  English  and  the  French.  Men  must 
be  proud  like  you,  or  wits  like  ourselves  ;  all 
the  rest  is  mere  imitation^."  Oswald  said  no- 
thing. A  few  moments  afterwards  the  Count 
renewed  the  conversation  by  sallies  of  vivaci- 
ty and  humor,  in  which  he  sported  with 
words  and  phrases  most  ingeniously ;  but 
neither  what  he  saw  nor  what  he  felt  was 
his  theme.  His  discourse  sprang  not  from 
within,  nor  from  without ;  but,  steering  clear 
alike  of  reflection  and  imagination,  found  its 
subjects  in  the  superficial  traits  of  society. 
He  named  twenty  persons  in  France  and  Eng- 
land, inquiring  if  Lord  Nelvil  knew  them ; 
and  related  as  many  pointed  anecdotes,  as  if, 
in  his  opinion,  the  only  language  for  a  man 
of  taste  was  the  gossip  of  good  company. 
Nelvil  pondered  for  some  time  on  this  singu- 
lar combination  of  courage  and  frivolity,  this 
contempt  of  misfortune,  which  would  have 
been  so  heroic  if  it  had  cost  more  effort,  in- 
stead of  springing  from  the  same  apathy 
which  rendered  him  incapable  of  deep  affec- 
tions. "  An  Englishman,"  thought  he, "  would 
have  been  overwhelmed  by  similar  circum- 
stances. Whence  does  this  Frenchman  de- 


rive his  fortitude,  yet  pliancy  of  character  ? 
Does  he  rightly  understand  the  art  of  living  * 
I  deem  myself  his  superior,  yet  am  I  not  ill 
and  wretched  7  Does  his  trifling  course  ac- 
cord better  than  mine  with  the  fleetness  o! 
life  1  Must  one  fly  from  thought  as  from  a 
foe,  instead  of  yielding  all  the  soul  to  its  pow- 
er V  Could  Oswald  have  settled  this  question, 
it  would  have  been  in  vain ;  for  none  can 
leave  the  intellectual  region  which  nature  has 
assigned  to  him,  and  our  qualities  of  mind  are 
as  intractable  as  our  faults  of  character. 

The  Count  gave  no  attention  to  Italy,  and 
rendered  it  almost  impossible  for  Oswald  to 
enjoy  it.  D'Erfeuil  continually  disturbed  his 
friend's  admiration  of  a  fine  country,  and  sense 
of  its  picturesque  charm  :  our  invalid  listened 
as  oft  as  he  could  to  the  sound  of  the  winds, 
or  the  murmur  of  the  waves ;  the  voice  of 
nature  did  more  for  his  mind  than  sketches  of 
coteries  held  at  the  foot  of  the  Alps,  among 
ruins,  or  on  the  banks  of  the  sea. 

His  own  grief  would  have  been  less  an  ob- 
stacle to  the  pleasure  he  might  have  tasted 
than  was  the  mirth  of  d'Erfeuil.  The  regrets 
of  a  feeling  heart  may  find  relief  in  a  con- 
templation of  nature  and  an  enjoyment  of  the 
fine  arts ;  but  frivolity,  under  whatever  form 
it  appears,  deprives  attention  of  its  power, 
thought  of  its  originality,  and  sentimeHt  of  its 
depth.  One  strange  effect  of  the  Count's 
levity  was  its  inspiring  Nelvil  with  diffidence 
in  all  their  relations  with  each  other.  The 
most  thoughtful  characters  are  often  the  easiest 
abashed.  The  giddy  embarrass  and  over-awe 
the  contemplative  ;  and  the  being  who  calls  him- 
self happy  appears  wiser  than  he  who  suffers. 

D'Erfeuil  was  every  way  mild,  obliging,  and 
free  ;  serious  only  in  his  self-love,  and  worthy 
to  be  liked  as  much  as  he  could  like  another; 
that  is,  as  a  good  companion  in  pleasure  and 
in  peril,  but  one  who  knew  not  how  to  partici- 
pate in  others'  pain.  He  wearied  of  Oswald's 
melancholy ;  and,  as  well  from  the  goodness 
of  his  heart  as  from  taste,  he  strove  to  dissi- 
pate it.  "  What  would  you  have  1"  he  often 
said  :  "  Are  you  not  young,  rich,  and  well,  if 
you  choose  1  you  are  but  fancy-sick.  I  have 
lost  all,  and  know  not  what  will  become  of  me  ; 
yet  I  enjoy  life  as  if  I  possessed  every  earthly 
blessing."  "  Your  courage  is  as  rare  as  it  is 
honorable,"  replied  Nelvil ;  "  but  the  reverses 
you  have  known  wound  less  than,  do  the  sor- 
rows of  my  heart."  "The  sorrows  of  the 
heart !  ay,  true,  they  must  be  the  worst  of  all : 
but  still  you  must  console  yourself;  for  a  sen- 
sible man  ought  to  banish  from  his  mind  what- 
ever can  be  of  no  service  to  himself  or  others. 
Are  we  not  placed  here  below  to  be  useful 
first,  and  consequently  happy  7  My  dear  Nel- 
vil, let  us  hold  by  that  faith." 


CORINNE  ;   OR,  ITALY. 


All  this  was  rational  enough,  in  the  usual 
sense  of  the  word  ;  for  d'Erfeuil  was,  in  most 
respects,  a  clear-headed  man.  The  impas- 
sioned are  far  more  liable  to  weakness,  than 
the  fickle ;  but,  instead  of  his  mode  of  think- 
ing securing  the  confidence  of  Nelvil,  he 
would  fain  have  assured  the  Count  that  he 
was  the  happiest  of  human  beings,  to  escape 
•the  infliction  of  his  attempts  at  comfort. 
Nevertheless,  d'Erfeuil  became  strongly  at- 
tached to  Lord  Nelvil.  His  resignation  and 
simplicity,  his  modesty  and  pride,  created  re- 
spect irresistibly.  The  Count  was  perplexed 
by  Oswald's  external  composure,  and  taxed 
his  memory  for  all  the  grave  maxims,  which 
in  childhood  he  had  heard  from  his  old  rela- 
tions, in  order  to  try  their  effect  upon  his 
friend ;  and  astonished  at  his  failing  to  van- 
quish his  apparent  coldness,  he  asked  himself, 
"  Am  I  not  good-natured,  frank,  brave,  and 
popular  in  society  1  What  do  I  want,  then,  to 
make  an  impression  on  this  man !  May  there 
not  be  some  misapprehension  between  us, 
arising,  perhaps,  from  his  not  sufficiently  un- 
derstanding French  ?" 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AN  unforeseen  circumstance  much  increased 
the  sensations  of  deference  which  d'Erfeuil 
felt  towards  his  travelling  companion.  Lord 
Nelvil's  state  of  health  obliged  him  to  stop 
some  days  at  Ancona.  Mount  and  main  con- 
spired to  beautify  its  site  ;  and  the  crowd  of 
Greeks,  orientally  seated  at  work  before  the 
shops,  the  varied  costumes  of  the  Levant,  to 
be  met  with  in  the  streets,  give  the  town  an 
original  and  interesting  air.  Civilisation  tends 
to  render  all  men  alike,  in  appearance  if  not 
in  reality  :  yet  fancy  may  find  pleasure  in 
characteristic  national  distinctions. 

Men  only  resemble  each  other  when  sophis- 
ticated by  sordid  or  fashionable  life  ;  whatever 
is  natural  admits  of  variety.  There  is  a  slight 
gratification,  at  least  for  the  eyes,  in  that  di- 
versity of  dress,  which  seems  to  promise  us 
equally  novel  ways  of  feeling  and  of  judgment. 
The  Greek,  Catholic,  and  Jewish  forms  of 
worship  exist  peaceably  together  in  Ancona. 
Their  ceremonies  are  strongly  contrasted  ;  but 
the  same  sigh  of  distress,  the  same  petition 
for  support,  ascends  to  Heaven  from  all. 

The  Catholic  church  stands  on  a  height 
that  overlooks  the  main,  the  lash  of  whose 
tides  frequently  blends  with  the  chant  of  the 
priests.  Within,  the  edifice  is  loaded  by  orna- 
I  ments  of  indifferent  taste  ;  but,  pausing  be- 


neath the  portico,  the  soul  delights  to  recall 
its  purest  of  emotions — religion — while  gazing 
at  that  superb  spectacle,  the  sea,  on  which 
man  never  left  his  trace.  He  may  plough 
the  earth,  and  cut  his  way  through  mountains, 
or  contract  rivers  into  canals,  for  the  transport 
of  his  merchandise  ;  but  if  his  fleets  for  a 
jnoment  furrow  the  ocean,  its  waves  as  in- 
stantly efface  this  slight  mark  of  servitude, 
and  it  again  appears  such  as  it  was  on  the  first 
day  of  its  creation.* 

Lord  Nelvil  had  decided  to  start  for  Rome 
on  the  morrow,  when  he  heard,  during  the 
night,  a  terrific  cry  from  the  streets,  and  has- 
tening from  his  hotel  to  learn  the  cause,  be- 
held a  conflagration  which,  beginning  at  the 
port,  spread  from  house  to  house  towards  the 
higher  part  of  the  town.  The  flames  were 
reflected  afar  off  in  the  sea ;  the  wind,  in- 
creasing their  violence,  agitated  their  images 
on  the  waves,  which  mirrored  in  a  thousand 
shapes  the  blood-red  features  of  a  lurid  fire. 
The  inhabitants,  having  no  engine  in  good  re- 
pair(l),  hurriedly  bore  forth  what  succor  they 
could  ;  above  their  shouts  was  heard  a  clank 
of  chains,  as  the  slaves  from  the  galleys  toiled 
to  save  the  city  which  served  them  for  a  pri- 
son. The  various  people  of  the  Levant, 
whom  commerce  had  drawn  to  Ancona,  be- 
trayed their  consternation  by  the  stupor  of 
their  looks.  The  merchants^  at  the  sight  of 
their  blazing  stores,  lost  all  presence  of  mind. 
Alarm  for  property  affects  the  mass  of  men 
almost  as  much  as  for  life,  without  awakening 
that  desperate  energy  of  soul  which  will  find 
and  try  every  resource. 

The  shouts  of  sailors  have  ever  something 
dreary  in  their  sound  ;  fear  now  rendered 
them  still  more  appalling.  The  mariners  af 
the  Adriatic  were  clad  in  peculiar  red  and 
brown  hoods,  from  which  peeped  their  ani- 
mated Italian  faces,  under  every  expression 
of  dismay.  The  natives,  lying  on  the  earth, 
covered  their  heads  with  their  cloaks,  as  if 
nothing  remained  for  tfeem  to  do  but  exclude 
the  sight  of  their  calamity.  Reckless  fury 
and  blind  submission  reigned  alternately,  but 
no  one  evinced  that  coolness  which  redoubles 
our  means  and  our  strength. 


*  Lord  Byron  translated  this  paragraph  in  the  fourth 
canto  of  Childe  Harold,  but  without  acknowledging  whence 
the  ideas  were  borrowed : — 

"  Roll  on,  thou  dark  and  deep  blue  ocean— roll  ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore ; — upon  the  wat'ry  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage. 

Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  tho«  rollest  now." 
See  stanzas  179,  and  182— Ta. 


:o 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  if  ALY. 


Oswald  remembered  that  there  were  two 
English  vessels  in  the  harbor  :  the  fire-engines 
of  both  were  ir.  perfect  order :  he  ran  to  the 
Captain's  house,  and  put  off  with  him  in  a  boat, 
to  fetch  them.  Those*  who  witnessed  this 
exclaimed  to  him,  "  Ah,  you  foreigners  do  well 
to  leave  our  unhappy  town  !"  "  We  shall  soon 
return,"  said  Oswald.  They  did  not  believe 
him,  till  he  came  back,  and  placed  one  of  the 
engines  in  front  of  the  house  nearest  to  the 
port,  the  other  before  that  which  blazed  in  the 
centre  of  the  street.  Count  d'Erfeuil  ex- 
posed his  life  with  gay  and  careless  daring. 
The  English  sailors  and  Lord  Nelvil's  serv- 
ants came  to  his  aid,  for  the  populace  remained 
motionless,  scarcely  understanding  what  these 
strangers  meant  to  do,  and  without  the  slight- 
est faith  in  their  success.  The  hells  ruhg 
from  all  sides  ;  the  priests  formed  processions  ; 
weeping  females  threw  themselves  before  their 
sculptured  saints ;  but  no  one  thought  on  the 
natural  powers  which  God  has  given  man  for 
his  own  defence.  Nevertheless,  when  they 
perceived  the  fortunate  effects  of  Oswald's 
activity — the  flames  extinguished,  and  their 
homes  preserved — rapture  succeeded  astonish- 
ment :  they  pressed  around  him,  and  kissed 
his  hand  with  such  ardent  eagerness,  that  he 
was  obliged  by  feigned  displeasure  to  drive 
them  from  him,  lest  they  should  impede  the 
rapid  succession  of  necessary  orders  for  sav- 
ing the  town.  Every  one  ranked  himself  be- 
neath Oswald's  command  :  for,  in  trivial  as  in 
great  events,  where  danger  is,  firmness  will 
find  its  rightful  station  ;  and  while  men  strong- 
ly fear,  they  cease  to  feel  jealousy.  Amid 
the  general  tumult,  Nelvil  now  distinguished 
shrieks  more  horrible  than  aught  he  had  pre- 
viously heard,  as  if  from  the  other  extremity 
of  the  town.  He  inquired  their  source  ;  and 
was  told  that  they  proceeded  from  the  Jews' 
quarter.  The  officer  of  police  was  accus- 
tomed to  close  its  gates  every  evening ;  the 
fire  gained  on  it,  and  the  occupants  could  not 
escape.'  Oswald  shuddered  at  the  thought, 
and  bade  them  instantly  open  the  barriers  ;  but 
the  women,  who  heard  him,  flung  themselves 
at  his  feet,  exclaiming,  "  Oh,  our  good  angel ! 
you  must  be  aware  that  it  is  certainly  on  their 
account,  we  have  endured  this  visitation ;  it  is 
they  who  bring  us  ill  fortune  ;  and  if  you  set 
them  free,  all  the  water  of  the  ocean  will 
never  quench  these  flames."  They  entreated 
him  to  let  the  Jews  be  burnt  with  as  much 
persuasive  eloquence  as  if  they  had  been 
petitioning  for  an  act  of  mercy.  Not  that 
they  were  by  nature  cruel,  but  that  their  su- 
perstitious fancies  were  forcibly  struck  by  a 
great  disaster.  Oswald  with  difficulty  con- 
tained his  indignation  at  hearing  a  prayer  so 


hatchets,  to  cut  down  the  gate  which  confined 
these  hapless  men,  who  instantly  spread  them- 
selves about  the  town,  rushing  to  their  mer- 
chandise, through  the  flames,  with  that  greedi- 
ness of  wealth,  which  impresses  us  so 
painfully,  when  it  drives  men  to  brave  even 
death  ;  as  if  human  beings,  in  the  present 
state  of  society,  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
simple  gift  of  life.  There  was  now  but  one 
house,  at  the  upper  part  of  the  town,  where 
the  fire  mocked  all  efforts  to  subdue  it.  So 
little  interest  had  been  shown  in  this  abode, 
that  the  sailors,  believing  it  vacant,  had  car- 
'ried  their  engines  towards  the  port.  Oswald 
himself,  stunned  by  the  calls  for  aid  around 
him,  had  almost  disregarded  it.  The  confla- 
gration had  not  been  early  communicated  to 
this  place,  but  it  had  made  great  progress 
there.  He  demanded  so  earnestly  what  the 
dwelling  was,  that  at  last  a  man  informed  him, 
—  the  Hospital  for  Maniacs  !  Overwhelmed 
by  these  tidings,  he  looked  in  vain  for  his  as- 
sistants, or  for  Count  d'Erfeuil  ;  as  vainly  did 
he  call  upon  the  inhabitants  :  they  were  em- 
ployed in  taking  care  of  their  property,  and 
deemed  it  ridiculous  to  risk  their  lives  for  the 
sake  of  men  who  were  all  incurably  mad.  "  It 
will  be  no  one's  fault  if  they  die,  but  a  bless- 
to themselves  and  families,"  was  the  gene- 


opinion ;    but   while   they   expressed 


ing 
ral 

Oswald  strode  rapidly  towards  the  building, 
and  even  those  who  blamed  involuntarily  fol- 
lowed him.  On  reaching  the  house,  he  saw, 
at  the  only  window  not  surrounded  by  flame, 
the  unconscious  creatures,  looking  on,  with 
that  heart-rending  laughter  which  •  proves 
either  an  ignorance  of  all  life's  sad  realities, 
or  such  deep-seated  despair  as  disarms  death's 
most  frightful  aspect  of  its  power.  An  inde- 
scribable chill  seized  him  at  this  sight.  In 
the  severest  period  of  his  own  distress  he  had 
felt  as  if  his  reason  were  deserting  him ;  and, 
since  then,  never  looked  upon  insanity  without 
the  most  painful  sympathy.  He  secured  a 
ladder  which  he  found  near,  placed  it  against 
the  wall,  ascended  through  the  flames,  and 
entered,  by  its  window,  the  room  where  the 
unfortunate  lunatics  were  assembled.  Their 
derangement  was  sufficiently  harmless  to  justi- 
fy their  freedom  within  doors ;  only  one  was 
chained.  Fortunately  the  floor  was  not  con- 
sumed, and  Oswald's  appearance  in  the  midst 
of  these  degraded  beings  had  all  the  effect  of 
enchantment ;  at  first  they  obeyed  without  re- 
sistance. He  bade  them  descend  before  him, 
one  aftnr  the  other,  by  the  ladder,  which  might 
in  a  few  seconds  be  destroyed.  The  first  of 
them  complied  in  silence,  so  entirely  had  Os- 
wald's looks  and  tones  subdued  them.  An- 
other, heedless  of  the  danger  in  which  the 


revolting.     He  sent  four  English  sailois,  with  I  least  delay  must  involve  Oswald  and  himself, 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


11 


was  inclined  to  rebel ;  ths  people,  alive  to  all 
the  horrors  of  the  situation,  called  on  Lord 
Xelvil  to  come  down,  and  leave  the  senseless 
wretches  to  escape  as  they  could  ;  but,  their 
deliverer  would  listen  to  nothing-  that  could 
defeat  his  generous  enterprise.  Of  the  six 
patients  found  in  the  hospital,  five  were  al- 
ready safe.  The  only  one  remaining  was  the 
youth  who  had  been  fettered  to  the  wall.  Os- 
wald loosened  his  irons,  and  bade  him  take 
the  same  course  as  his  companions ;  bnt,  on 
feeling  himself  at  liberty,  after  two  years' 
bondage,  he  sprung  about  the'  room  with  fran- 
tic delight,  which,  however,  gave  place  to 
fury,  when  Oswald  desired  him  to  get  out  of 
the"  window.  But  finding  persuasion  fruitless, 
and  seeing  that  the  fatal  element  was  fast  ex- 
tending its  ravages,  he  clasped  the  struggling 
maniac  in  his  arms ;  and,  while  the  smoke 
prevented  his  seeing  where  to  step,  leaped 
from  the  last  bars  of  the  ladder,  giving  the 
rescued  man,  who  still  contended  with  his 
benefactor,  into  the  hands  of  persons  whom 
he  charged  to  guard  him  carefully. 

Oswald,  with  his  locks  disordered,  and  his 
countenance  sweetly  yet  proudly  animated  by 
the  perils  he  had  braved,  struck  the  gazing 
crowd  with  an  almost  fanatical  admiration  ; 
the  women,  particularly,  expressed  themselves 
in  that  fanciful  language,  the  universal  gift 
of  Italy,  which  often  lends  a  dignity  to  the 
address  of  her  humblest  children.  They  cast 
themselves  on  their  knees  before  him,  crying, 
— "  Assuredly  thou  art  St.  Michael,  the  pa- 
tron of  Ancona.  Show  us  thy  wings,  yet  do 
not  fly,  save  to  the  top  of  our  cathedral, 
where  all  may  see  and  pray  to  thee  !"  "  My 
child  is  ill,  oh  cure  him !"  said  one. 
'•  Where,"  added  another,  "  is  my  husband, 
who  has  been  absent  so  many  years  ]  tell 
me  !"  Oswald  was  longing  to  escape,  when 
d'Erfeuil,  joining  him,  pressed  his  hand. 
"  Dear  Nelvil !"  he  began,  "  could  you  share 
nothing  with  your  friend  1  'twas  cruel  to  keep 
all  the  glory  to  yourself."  "  Help  me  from 
this  place  !"  returned  Oswald  in  a  low  voice. 
A  moment's  darkness  favored  their  flight,  and 
both  hastened  in  search  of  post-horses. 
Sweet  as  was  the  first  ser.se  of  the  good  he 
had  just  effected,  with  whom  could  he  par- 
take it,  now  that  his  best  fnejid  was  no  more  ? 
So  wretched  is  the  bereaved,  that  felicity  and 
care  alike  remind  him  of  his  heart's  solitude. 
What  substitute  has  life  for  the  affection  born 
with  us  ?  for  that  mutual  understanding,  that 
kindred  sympathy,  that  friendship,  formed  by 
Heaven  to  exist  but  between  parent  and  child  '? 
We  may  love  again  ;  but  the  happiness  of 
confiding  the  whole  soul  to  another, — that  we 
can  never  regain. 


CHAPTER  V.  • 

OSWALD  sped  to  Rome,  over  the  Marches 
of  Ancona,  and  the  Papal  States,  without  re- 
marking or  interesting  himself  in  anything. 
Besides  his  melancholy,  his  disposition  had  a 
natural  indolence,  from  which  it  could  only  be 
roused  by  some  strong  passion.  His  taste 
for  the  arts  was  not  yet  developed  ;  he  had 
lived  but  in  England  and  in  France  ;*  in  the 
former,  society  is  everything, — in  the  latter, 
political  interests  nearly  absorb  all  others. 
His  mind,  concentrated  in  his  griefs,  could 
not  yet  solace  itself  in  the  wonders  of  nature, 
or  the  works  of  art. 

D'Erfeuil,  running  through  every  town, 
with  the  Guide-Book  in  his  hand,  had  the 
double  pleasure  of  making  a%vay  with  his 
time,  arid  of  assuring  himself  that  there  was 
nothing  to  see  worthy  the  praise  of  any  one 
who  had  been  in  France.  This  nil  admirari 
of  his  discouraged  Oswald,  who  was  also 
somewhat  prepossessed  against  Italy  and 
Italians.  He  could  not  yet  penetrate  the 
mystery  .ot  the  people  or  their  country, — a 
mystery  that  must  be  solved  rather  by  imagi- 
nation than  by  that  spirit  of  judgment  which 
an  English  education  particularly  matures. 

The  Italians  are  more  remarkable  for  what 
they  have  been,  and  might  be,  than  for  what 
they  are.  The  wastes  that  surround  Rome, 
as  if  the  earth,  fatigued  by  glory,  disdained 
to  become  productive,  are  but  uncultivated 
and  neglected  lands  to  the  utilitarian.  Os- 
wald, accustomed  from  his  childhood  to  a  love 
of  order  and  public  prosperity,  received,  at 
first,  an  unfavorable  impressic  i.  in  crossing 
such  abandoned  plains  as  mark  the  approach 
to  the  former  queen  of  cities.  Looking  on 
the  scene  with  the  eye  of  an  enlightened  pa- 
triot, he  censured  the  idle  inhabitants  and 
their  rulers. 

The  Count  d'Erfeuil  regarded  it  as  a  man 
of  the  world  ;  and  thus  the  one  from  reason, 
and  the  other  from  levity,  remained  dead  to 
the  effect  which  the  Campagna  produces  on  a 
mind  filled  by  a  regretful  memory  of  those 
natural  beauties  and  splendid  misfortunes, 
which  invest  this  country  with  an  indescriba- 
ble charm. 

The  Count  uttered  the  most  comic  lament- 
ations over  the  environs  of  Rome.  "  Wrhat !" 
said  he,  "no  villas'?  no  equipages'!  nothing 
to  announce  the  neighborhood  of  a  great  city  ? 
Good  God !  how  dull !"  The  same  pride 
with  which  the  natives  of  the  coast  point  out 


— *This  alludes  to  a  previous  tour;  in  his  present  one, 
Oswald  has  not  approached  France.  His  longest  stay  wa» 
in  Germany.— TR 


12 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


the  sea,  and  the  Neapolitans  show  their  Ve- 
suvius, now  transported  the  postillions,  who 
exclaimed,  "  Look  !  that  is  the  cupola  of  St. 
Peter's."  •'  One  might  take  it  for  the  dome 
of  the  Invalides !"  cried  d'Erfeuil.  This 
coicparison,  rather  national  than  just,  de- 
stroyed the  sensation  which  Oswald  might 
have  received,  in  first  beholding  that  magnifi- 
cent wonder  of  man's  creation. 

They  entered  Rome,  neither  on  a  fair  day, 
nor  a  lovely  night,  but  on  a  dark  and  misty 
evening,  which  dimmed  and  confused  every 
object  before  them.  They  crossed  the  Tiber 
without  observing  it ;  passed  through  the  Porto 
del  Popolo,  which  led  them  at  once  to  the 
Corso,  the  largest  street  of  modern  Rome, 
but  that  which  possesses  the  least  originality 
of  feature,  as  being  the  one  which  most  re- 
sembles those  of  other  European  towns. 

The  streets  were  crowded  ;  puppet-shows 
and  mountebanks  formed  groups  round  the 


base  of  Antoninus'  pillar.     Oswald's  attention 
was  caught  by  these  objects,  and  the  name  of 
Rome  forgotten.     He  felt  that  deep  isolation 
which  presses  on  the  heart,  when  we  enter  a 
foreign  scene,  and   look   on   a  multitude  to 
whom  our  existence   is  unknown,  and   who 
have  not  one  interest  in  common  with  us. 
These   reflections,  so  saddening  to  all  men, 
are  doubly  so  to  the  English,  who  are  accus- 
tomed to  live  among  themselves,  and  find  it 
difficult  to  blend  with  the  manners  of  other  j 
lands.     In  Rome,  that  vast  caravansary,  all  | 
is  foreign,  even  the  Romans,  who  seem  to  j 
live  there,  not  like  its  possessors,  but  like  | 
pilgrims   who   repose   among   its   ruins.    (2)  j 
Oppressed  by  laboring  thoughts,  Oswald  shut 
himself  in  his  room,  instead  of  exploring  the 
city ;  little  dreaming  that  the  country  he  had 
entered  beneath   such  a  sense   of  dejection 
would  soon  become  the  mine  of  so  many  new 
ideas  and  enjoyments. 


BOOK     II. 

CORINNE     AT     THE     CAPITOL. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OSWALD  awoke  in  Rome.  The  dazzling 
sun  of  Italy  met  his  first  gaze,  and  his  soul 
was  penetrated  with  sensations  of  love  and 
gratitude  for  that  heaven,  which  seemed  to 
smile  on  him  in  these  glorious  beams.  He 
heard  the  bells  of  numerous  churches  ringing, 
discharges  of  cannon  from  various  distances, 
as  if  announcing  some  high  solemnity.  He 
inquired  the  cause,  and  was  informed  that  the 
most  celebrated  female  in  Italy  was  about  that 
morning  to  be  crowned  at  the  capitol — Corin- 
ne,  the  poet  and  improvisatrice,  one  of  the 
loveliest  women  of  Rome.  He  asked  some 
questions  respecting  this  ceremony,  hallowed 
by  the  names  of  Petrarch  and  of  Tasso  :  every 
reply  he  received  warmly  excited  his  curi- 
osity. 

There  can  be  nothing  more  hostile  to  the 
habits  and  opinions  of  an  Englishman  than 
any  great  publicity  given  to  the  career  of  a 
woman.  But  the  enthusiasm  with  which  all 
imaginative  talents  inspire  the  Italians,  infects, 
at  least  for  the  time,  even  strangers,  who  for- 
get prejudice  itself  among  people  so  lively  in 
the  expression  of  their  sentiments. 


The  common  populace  of  Rome  discuss 
their  statues,  pictures,  monuments,  and  anti- 
quities, with  much  taste  ;  and  literary  merit, 
carried  to  a  certain  height,  becomes  with  them 
a  national  interest. 

On  going  forth  into  the  public  resorts,  Os- 
wald found  that  the  streets  through  which  Co- 
rinne  was  to  pass  had  been  adorned  for  her 
reception.  The  multitude,  who  generally 
throng  but  the  path  of  fortune  or  of  power,  were 
almost  in  a  tumult  of  eagerness  to  look  on  one 
whose  soul  was  her  only  distinction.  In  the 
present  state  of  the  Italians,  the  glory  of  the 
fine  arts  is  all  their  fate  allows  them  ;  and 
they  appreciate  genius  of  that  order  with  a 
vivacity  which  might  raise  up  a  host  of  great 
men,  if  applause  could  suffice  to  produce  them 
— if  a  life  of  struggle,  great  interests,  and  an 
independent  station  were  not  the  food  required 
to  nourish  thought. 

Oswald  walked  the  streets  of  Rome,  await- 
ing the  arrival  of  Corinne :  he  heard  her 
named  every  instant ;  every  one  related  some 
new  trait,  proving  that  she  united  all  the  tal- 
ents most  captivating  to  the  imagination.  One 
asserted  that  her  voice  was  the  most  touching 
in  Italy ;  another,  that,  in  tragic  acting,  she 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


13 


had  no  peer ;  a  third,  that  she  danced  like  a 
nymph,  and  drew  with  equal  grace  and  inven- 
tion :  all  said  that  no  one  had  ever  written  or 
extemporised  verses  so  sweet ;  and  that,  in 
daily  conversation,  she  displayed  alternately 
an  ease  and  an  eloquence  which  fascinated  all 
who  heard  her.  They  disputed  as  to  which 
part  of  Italy  had  given  her  birth ;  some  ear- 
nestly contending  that  she  must  be  a  Roman, 
or  she  could  not  speak  the  language  with  such 
purity.  Her  family  name  was  unknown.  Her 
first  work,  which  had  appeared  five  years 
since,  bore  but  that  of  Corinne.  No  one  could 
tfcll  where  she  had  lived,  nor  what  she  had 
been,  before  that  period ;  and  she  was  now 
nearly  six  and  twenty.  Such  mystery  and 
publicity,  united  in  the  fate  of  a  female  of  whom 
every  one  spoke,  yet  whose  real  name  no  one 
knew,  appeared  to  Nelvil  as  among  the  won- 
ders jaf  the  land  he  came  to  see.  He  would 
have*  judged  such  a  woman  very  severely  in 
England ;  but  he  applied  not  her  social  eti- 
quettes to  Italy  ;  and  the  crowning  of  Corinne 
awoke  in  his  breast  the  same  sensation  which 
he  would  have  felt  on  reading  an  adventure  of 
Ariosto's. 

A  burst  of  exquisite  melody  preceded  the 
approach  of  the  triumphal  procession.  How 
thrilling  is  each  event  that  is  heralded  by  mu- 
sic ?  A  great  number  of  Roman  nobles,  and 
not  a  few  foreigners,  came  first.  "Behold 
her  retinue  of  admirers]"  said  one.  "Yes," 
replied  another  ;  "  she  receives  a  whole  world's 
homage,  but  accords  her  preference  to  none. 
She  is  rich,  independent ;  it  is  even  believed, 
from  her  noble  air,  that  she  is  a  lady  of  high 
birth,  who  wishes  to  remain  unknown."  "  A 
divinity  veiled  in  clouds,"  concluded  a  third. 
Oswald  looked  on  the  man  who  spoke  thus  : 
everything  betokened  him  a  person  of  the  hum- 
blest class  ;  but  the  natives  of  the  South  con- 
verse as  naturally  in  poetic  phrases  as'if  they 
imbibed  them  with  the  air,  or  were  inspired  by 
the  sun. 

At  last  four  spotless  steeds  appeared  in 
the  midst  of  the  crowd,  drawing  an  antiquely- 
shaped  car,  beside  which  walked  a  band  of 
maidens  in  snowy  vestments.  Wherever  Co- 
rinne passed,  perfumes  were  thrown  upon  the 
air ;  the  windows,  decked  with  flowers  and 
scarlet  hangings,  were  peopled  by  gazers, 
who  shouted,  "  Long  live  Corinne !  Glory  to 
beauty  and  to  genius  !" 

This  emotion  was  general ;  but,  to  partake 
it,  one  must  lay  aside  English  reserve  and 
French  raillery  ;  Nelvil  could  not  yield  to  the 
spirit  of  the  scene,  till  he  beheld  Corinne. 

Attired  like  Domenichino's  Sibyl,  an  Indian 
shawl  was  twined  among  her  lustrous  black 
curls,  a  blue  drapery  fell  over  her  robe  of  vir- 
gin white,  and  her  whole  costume  was  pictur- 


esque, without  sufficiently  varying  from  mo- 
dern usage  to  appear  tainted  by  affectation. 
Her  attitude  was  noble  and  modest :  it  might, 
indeed,  be  perceived  that  she  was  content  to 
be  admired ;  yet  a  timid  air  blended  with  her 
joy,  and  seemed  to  ask  pardon  for  her  triumph. 
The  expression  of  her  features,  her  eyes,  her 
smile,  created  a  solicitude  in  her  favor,  and 
made  Lord  Nelvil  her  friend  even  before  any 
more  ardent  sentiment  subdued  him.  Her 
arms  were  transcendently  beautiful ;  her  figure 
tall,  and,  as  we  frequently  see  among  the  Gre- 
cian statues,  rather  robust — energetically 
characteristic  of  youth  and  happiness.  There 
was  something  inspired  in  her  air;  yet  the 
very  manner  in  which  she  bowed  her  thanks 
for  the  applause  she  received,  betrayed  a  na- 
tural disposition  sweetly  contrasting  with  the 
pomp  of  her  extraordinary  situation.  She 
gave  you  at  the  same  instant  the  idea  of  a 
priestess  of  Apollo  advancing  towards  his 
temple,  and  of  a  woman  born  to  fulfil  the  usual 
duties  of  life  with  perfect  simplicity  ;  in  truth, 
her  every  gesture  not  more  elicited  wondering 
conjecture,  than  it  conciliated  sympathy  and 
affection.  The  nearer  she  approached  the 
Capitol,  so  fruitful  in  classic  associations,  the 
more  these  tributes  of  admiration  increased. 
That  resplendent  atmosphere,  these  Romans 
so  full  of  enthusiasm,  and,  above  all,  Corinne 
herself,  produced  an  electric  effect  on  Oswald. 
He  had  often,  in  his  own  land,  seen  statesmen 
drawn  in  triumph  by  the  people  ;  but  this  was 
the  first  time  that  he  had  ever  witnessed  the  ten- 
der of  such  honors  to  a  woman,  illustrious  only 
in  mind.  Her  car  of  victory  cost  no  fellow 
mortal's  tear ;  nor  terror  nor  regret  could 
check  his  admiration  for  those  fairest  gifts  of 
nature — creative  fancy,  sensibility,  and  reason. 
These  new  ideas  so  intensely  occupied  him, 
that  he  noticed  none  of  the  long-famed  spots 
over  which  Corinne  proceeded.  At  the  foot 
of  the  steps  leading  to  the  Capitol  the  car 
stopped,  and  all  her  friends  rushed  to  offer 
their  hands :  she  took  that  of  Prince  Castel 
Forte,  the  nobleman  most  esteemed  in  Rome 
for  his  talents  |nd  character.  Every  one  ap- 
proved her  choice.  She  ascended  to  the  Ca- 
pitol, whose  imposing  majesty  seemed  gra- 
ciously to  welcome  the  light  footsteps  of  wo- 
man. The  instruments  sounded  with  fresh 
vigor,  the  cannon  shook  the  air,  and  the  all- 
conquering  Sybil  entered  the  palace  pufepared 
for  her  reception. 

In  the  centre  of  the  hall  stood  the  senator 
who  was  to  crown  Corinne,  surrounded  by  his 
brothers  in  office  ;  on  one  side,  all  the  cardi- 
nals and  most  distinguished  ladies  of  Rome ; 
on  the  other,  the  members  of  the  Academy  ; 
while  the  opposite  extremity  was  filled  by  some 
portion  of  the  multitude  who  had  followed  Co- 


14 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


rinne.  The  chair  destined  for  her  was  placed 
a 'step  lower  than  that  of  the  senator.  Ere 

iting  herself  in  presence  of  that  august  as- 
j;  ocmbly,  she  complied  with  the  custom  of 
bending  one  knee  to  the  earth  :  the  gentle  dig- 
nity of  this  action  filled  Oswald's  eyes  with 
tears,  to  his  own  surprise  ;  but,  in  the  midst 
'of  all  this  success,  it  seemed  as  if  the  looks  of 
Corinne  implored  the  protection  of  a  friend, 
with  which  no  woman,  however  superior,  can 
dispense  ;  and  he  thought  how  delicious  it 
were  to  be  the  stay  of  her,  whose  sensitive- 
ness alone  could  render  such  a  prop  necessary. 
As  soon  as  Corinne  was  seated,  the  Roman 
poets  recited  the  odes  and  sonnets  composed 
for  this  occasion  ;  all  praised  her  to  the  high- 
est ;  hut  in  styles  that  described  her  no  more 
than  they  would  have  done  any  other  woman 
of  genius.  The  same  mythological  images 
and  illusions  might  have  been  addressed  to 
such  beings  from  the  days  of  Sappho  to  our 
own. 

Already  Nelvil  was  displeased  with  this 
kind  of  incense  for  her ;  he  fancied  that  he 
could  that  moment  have  drawn  a  truer,  a  more 
finished  portrait ;  such,  indeed,  as  could  have 
belonged  to  no  one  but  Corinne. 


CHAPTER  II. 

PRINCE  CARTEL  FORTE  now  took  up  the 
discourse,  in  a  manner  which  riveted  the 
attention  of  his  audience.  He  was  a  man  of 
fifty,  with  a  measured  address  and  command- 
ing carriage.  The  assurance  which  Nelvil 
had  received,  that  he  was  but  the  friend  of 
Corinne,  enabled  him  to  listen  with  unqualified 
delight  to  what,  without  such  safeguard,  he 
could  not,  even  thus  early,  have  heard,  save  ' 
with  a  confused  sense  of  jealousy. 

The  prince  read  some  pages  of  unpretending 
prose,  singularly  fitted,  notwithstanding,  to 
display  the  spirit  of  Corinne.  He  pointed  out 
the  particular  merit  of  her  works  as  partly 
derived  from  her  profound  study  of  foreign 
literature,  teaching  her  to  unite  the  graphic 
description  of  the  South,  with  that  observant 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart  which  appears 
the  inheritance  of  those  whose  countries  offer 
fewer  objects  of  external  beauty.  He  lauded 
her  graceful  gaiety,  tliat,  free  from  ironical 
satire,  seemed  to  spring  but  from  the  freshness 
of  her  fancy.  He  strove  to  speak  of  her  ten- 
derness ;  but  it  was  easily  to  be  seen  that 
personal  regret  mingled  with  this  theme.  He 


touched  on  the  difficulty  for  a  woman  so  en- 
dowed to  meet,  in  real  life,  with  any  object 
resembling  tiie  ideal  image  clad  in  the  hues 
of  her  own  heart ;  then  contented  himself  by 
depicting  the  impassioned  feelings  which  kin- 
dled her  poetry, — her  art  of  seizing  on  the 
most  touching  charms  of  nature,  the  deepest 
emotions  of  the  soul.  He  dwelt  on  the  origi- 
nality of  her  expressions,  which,  arising  from 
her  own  peculiar  turn  of  thought,  constituted 
an  involuntary  -spell,  untarnished  •  by  the 
slightest  cloud  of  mannerism.  He  spoke  of 
her  eloquence  as  a  resistless  power,  which 
must  transport  most  those  who  possessed  the 
best  sense  and  the  truest  susceptibility. 
"  Corinne,"  said  he,  "  is  doubtless  more  cele- 
brated than  any  other  of  our  countrywomen  ; 
and  yet  it  is  only  her  friends  who  can  describe 
her.  The  qualities  of  her  soul,  when  true, 
always  require  to  be  divined  ;  fame,  as  well 
as  obscurity,  might  prevent  their  detection,  if 
some  congenial  sympathy  came  not  to  ouraid." 
He  dilated  on  her  talent  as  an  improvisatrice, 
as  distinct  from  everything  which  had  ,been 
known  by  that  name  in  Italy.  "  It  is  not  only 
attributable,"  he  continued,  "  to  the  fertility 
of  her  mind,  but  to  her  deep  enthusiasm  for  all 
generous  sentiments  :  she  cannot  pronounce  a 
word  that  recalls  them,  but  that  inexhaustible 
source  of  thought  overflows  at  her  lips  in 
strains  ever  pure  and  harmonious  ;  her  poetry 
is  intellectual  music,  such  as  alone  can  em- 
body the  fleeting  and  delicate  reveries  of  the 
heart."  He  extolled  the  conversation  of  Co- 
rinne, as  one  who  had  tasted  all  its  delights. 
"  In  it,"  he  said,  "  is  united  all  that  is  natural, 
fanciful,  just,  sublime,  powerful,  and  sweet,  to 
vary  the  mental  banquet  every  instant ;  it  is 
what  Petrarch  termed 

'II  parlar  che  nell'  nnima  si  sente,' — 

a  language  that  is  felt  to  the  heart's  core,  and 
must  possess  much  of  the  vaunted  Oriental 
magic  which  has  been  given  by  the  ancients 
to  Cleopatra:  The  scenes  I  have  visited  with 
her,  the  music  we  have  heard  together,  the 
pictures  she  has  shown  me,  the  books  she  has 
taught  me  to  enjoy,  compose  my  universe. 
In  all  these  is  some  spark  of  her  life ;  and 
were  1  forced  to  dwell  afar  from-her,  I  would, 
at  least,  surround  myself  with  them,  though 
certain  to  seek  in  vain  for  her  radiant  traces 
amongst  them,  when  once  she  had  departed." 
"  Yes  !"  he  cried,  as  his  glance  accidentally 
fell  upon  Oswald  ;  "  look  on  Corinne,  if  you 
may  pass  your  days  with  her — if  that  twofold 
existence  can  be  long  assured  to  you  :  but 
behold  her  not,  if  you  must  be  condemned  to 
leave  her.  Vainly  would  you  seek,  however 
long  you  might  survive,  the  creative  spirit 
which  multiplied,  in  partaking,  all  you? 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


15 


thoughts  and  feelings :  you  would  never  find 
it  more !" 

Oswald  trembled  at  these  words ;  his  eyes 
\vere  fixed  on  Corinne,  who  listened  with  an 
agitation  which  had  not  its  source  in  self-love, 
but  iu  gentler  and  more  tender  emotions. 
Castel  Forte  resumed  the  address,  which  a 
momentary  weakness  had  suspended.  He 
spoke  of  Corinne  as  a  painter  and  a  musician  ; 
of  her  declamation  and  her  dancing.  "  In  all 
these  talents,"  he  said,  "  she  is  still  herself — 
confined  to  no  one  mode,  nor  rule — but  ex- 
pressing, in  various  languages,  the  euchant- 
ments  of  Art  and  Imagination.  I  cannot  flatter 
myself  on  having  faithfully  represented  one, 
of  whom  it  is  impossible  to  form  an  idea  until 
she  herself  is  known  ;  but  her  presence  is  left 
to  Rome,  as  among  the  chief  blessings  of  her 
brilliant  sky.  Corinne  is  the  link  tfiat  binds 
her  friends  to  each  other.  She  is  the  motive, 
the  interest  of  our  lives  ;  we  rely  on  her  worth, 
and  are  proud  of  her  genius,  and  say  to  the 
sons  of  other  lands,  '  Look  on  the  personation 
of  our  own  fair  Italy.  She  is  what  we  might 
be,  if  freed  from  the  ignorance,  envy,  discord, 
and  sloth,  to  which  fate  has  reduced  us.'  We 
love  to  contemplate  her,  as  a  rare  production 
of  our  climate,  and  our  fine  arts  ;  a  relic  of  the 
past,  a  prophetess  of  the  future ;  and  when 
strangers,  pitiless  of  the  faults  born  of  our 
misfbrtunes,  insult  the  country  whence  have 
arisen  the  luminaries  that  have  enlightened 
all  Europe,  still  we  but  say  to  them,  '  Look 
upon  Corinne.'  Yes;  we  will  follow  in  her 
track,  and  be  such  men  as  she  is  a  woman ; 
if,  indeed,  men  can,  like  women,  make  worlds 
in  their  own  hearts ;  jf  our  moral  tempera- 
ments, necessarily  dependent  on  social  obliga- 
tions and  exterior  circumstances,  could,  like 
hers,  owe  all  their  light  to  the  glorious  torch 
of  poesy!" 

The  instant  the  Prince  ceased  to  speak,  was 
followed  by  an  unanimous  outbreak  of  admira- 
tion, even  from  the  dignitaries  of  the  State, 
although  the  discourse  had  ended  by  an  indi- 
rect censure  on  the  present  situation  of  Italy  ; 
so  true  it  is,  that  there  men  practise  a  degree 
of  liberality  which,- though  it  extends  not  to 
any  improvement  of  their  institutions,  readily 
pardons  superior  minds  for  a  mild  dissent  from 
existing  prejudices.  Castel  Forte  was  a  man 
of  high  repute  in  Rome.  He  spoke  with  a 
sagacity  remarkable  among  a  people  usually 
wiser  in  actions  than  in  words.  He  had  not, 
in  the  affairs  of  life,  that  ability  which  often 
distinguishes  an  Italian  ;  but  he  shrunk  not 
from  the  fatigue  of  thinking,  as  his  happy 
countrymen  are  wont  to  do  ;  trusting  to  arrive 
at  all  truths  by  intuition,  even  as  their  soil 
bears  fruit,  unaided,  save  by  the  favor  of 
heaven. 


CHAPTER  III. 

CORINNE  rose,  as  the  Prince  finished  his 
oration.  She  thanked  him  by  an  inclination 
of  the  head,  which  diffidently  betrayed  her 
sense  of  having  been  praised  in  a  strain  after 
her  own  heart.  It  was  the  custom  for  a  poet 
crowned  at  the  Capitol  to  extemporize  or  re- 
cite in  verse,  ere  receiving  the  destined  bays. 
Corinne  sent  for  her  chosen  instrument,  the 
lyre,  more  antique  in  form  and  simpler  in 
sound  than  the  harp.  While  tuning  it.  she  was 
oppressed  by  such  a  sensation  of  timidity,  that 
her  voice  trembled  as  she  asked  what  theme 
she  was  to  attempt.  "  The  glory  and  welfare 
of  Italy!"  cried  all  near  her.  ""Ah,  yes!" 
she  exclaimed,  already  sustained  by  her  own 
talents  ;  "  the  glory  and  welfare  of  Italy  !" 
Then,  animated  by  her  love  of  country,  she 
breathed  forth  thoughts  to  which  prose  or 
another  language  can  do  but  imperfect  justice. 

CHANT  OF  COBINNK  AT  THB   CAPITOt.* 

CRADLE  of  Letters  !  Mistress  of  the  World  ! 
Soil  of  the  Sun  !  Italia  !  I  salute  thee  ! 
How  oft  the  human  race  have  worn  thy  yoke, 
The  vassals  of  thine  arms,  thine  arts,  thy  sky  ! 

Olympus  for  Ausonia  once  was  left, 
And  by  a  god.    Of  such  a  land  are  bom 
Dreams  of  the  golden  time,  for  there  man  looks 
Too  happy  to  suppose  him  criminal. 

By  genius  Rome  subdued  the  world,  then  reien'd 
A  queen  by  liberty.    The  Roman  mind 
Set  its  own  stamp  upon  the  universe  ; 
And,  when  barbarian  hordes  whelm'd  Italy 
Then  darkness  was  entire  upon  the  earth. 

Italia  re-appear'd,  and  with  her  rose 
Treasures  divine,  brought  by  the  wandering  Greeks; 
To  her  were  then  reveal'd  the  laws  of  Heaven. 
Her  daring  children  made  discovery 
Of  a  new  hemisphere:  Queen  still  she  held 
Thought's  sceptre  ;  but  that  laurel'd  sceptre  made 
Ungrateful  subjects. 

Imagination  gave  her  hack  the  world 
Which  she  had  lost.    Painters  and  poets  shaped 
Earth  and  Olympus,  and  a  heaven  and  hell. 
Her  animating  fire,  by  Genius  kept, 
Far  better  guarded  than  the  pagan  god's, 
Found  not  in  Europe  a  Prometheus 
To  bear  it  from  her. 


And  wherefore  am  I  at  the  Capitol  ? 
Why  should  my  lowly  brow  receive  the  crown 
Which  Petrarch  wore  7  which  yet  suspended  hangs 
Where  Tasso's  funeral  cypress  mournful  waves 
Why  ?  oh,  my  countrymen  !  but  that  you  love 
Glory  so  well,  that  you  repay  its  search 
Almost  like  its  success, 

Now,  if  you  love  that  glory  which  too  oft 
Chooses  its  victims  from  its  vanquishers, 
Those  which  itself  has  crown'd  ;  think,  and  be  proud 
Of  days  which  saw  the  perish'd  Arts  reborn. 


*  For  the  translation  of  this  Ode,  the  proprietor  of  the 
Standard  Novels  is  indebted  to  the  pen  of  Miss  L.  E. 
LandOQ. 


16 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


Your  Dame !  Homer  of  the  Christian  age, 
The  sacred  poet  of  Faith's  mysteries, — 
Hero  of  thought, — whose  gloomy  genius  plunged 
In  Styx,  and  pierced  to  hell ;  unil  whose  deep  soul 
Was  like  the  abyss  it  fathom'd. 

Italia  !  as  she  was  in  days  of  power 
Revived  in  D<-intc:  such  a  spirit  stirr'd 
In  old  republics :  bard  and  warrior  too, 
He  lit  the  tiro  of  action  'mid  the  dead, 
Till  e  en  his  shadows  had  more  vigorous  life 
Than  real  existence;  still  were  they  pursued 
By  earthly  memories:  passions  wiihout  aim 
Gnaw'd  at  their  heart,  still  fever'd  by  the  past; 
Yet  less  irrevocable  seem'd  that  past, 
Than  their  eternal  future. 


Methinka  that  Dante,  banish'd  his  own  soul, 
Bore  to  imagined  worlds  his  actual  grief, 
Ever  his  shades  inquire  the  things  of  life, 
As  ask'd  the  poet  of  his  native  land  ; 
And  from  his  exile  did  he  paint  a  hell. 
In  his  eyes  Florence  set  her  stamp  on  all ; 
The  ancient  dead  seem'd  Tuscans  like  himself: 
Not  that  his  power  was  bounded,  but  his  strength  ; 
And  his  great  mind  forced  all  the  universe 
Within  the  circle  of  its  thought. 

A  mystic  chain  of  circles  and  of  spheres 
Led  him  from  Hell  to  Purgatory ;  thence 
From  Purgatory  unto  Paradise : 
Faithful  historian  of  his  glorious  dream. 
He  fills  with  light  the  regions  most  obscure 
The  world  created  in  his  triple  song 
Is  brilliant,  and  complete,  and  animate, 
Like  a  new  planet  seen  within  the  sky. 

All  upon  earth  doth  change  to  poetry 
Beneath  his  voice :  the  objects,  the  ideas. 
The  laws,  and  all  the  strange  phenomena, 
Seem  like  a  new  Olympus  witn  new  Gods,- 
Fancy's  mythology, — which  disappears 
Like  Pagan  creeds  at  sight  of  paradise, 
That  sea  of  lisht,  radiant  with  shining  stars, 
And  love,  and  virtue. 

The  magic  words  of  our  most  noble  bard 
Are  like  the  prism  of  the  universe  ;- 
Her  marvels  there  reflect  themselves,  divide, 
And  re-create  her  wonders ,  sounds  paint  hues, 
And  colors  melt  in  harmony.    The  rhyme — 
Sounding  or  strange,  and  rapid  or  prolong'd — 
That  charm  of  genius,  triumph  of  high  art ; 
Poetry's  divination,  which  reveals 
All  nature's  secrets,  such  as  influence 
The  heart  of  man. 

From  this  great  work  did  Dante  hope  the  end 
Of  his  long  exile ;  and  he  call'd  on  Fame 
To  be  his  mediator  :  but  he  died 
Too  soon  to  reap  the  laurels  of  his  land. 
Thus  wastes  the  transitory  life  of  man 
In  adverse  fortunes ;  and  he  glory  wins, 
If  some  chance  tide,  more  happy,  floats  to  shore. 
The  grave  is  in  the  port ;  and  destiny, 
In  thousand  shapes,  heralds  the  close  of  life 
By  a  return  of  happiness. 


Thus  the  ill-fated  Tasso,  whom 


i  you  praise, 
Id  yet  console,— 


/The  beautiful,  the  chivalric,  the  brave, 
Dreaming  the  deeds,  feeling  the  love  he  sung, — 
With  awe  and  gratitude  approach'd  your  walls, 
As  did  his  heroes  to  Jerusalem. 
They  named  the  day  to  crown  him  ;  but  its  eve 
Death  bade  him  to  his  feast,  the  terrible ! 
The  Heaven  is  jealous  of  the  Earth :  and  calls 
Its  favorites  from  the  stormy  waves  of  time. 

'Twas  in  an  age  more  happy  and  more  free 
Than  Tasso's,  that,  like  Dante,  Petrarch  sang : 
Brave  poet  of  Italian  liberty. 


Elsewhere  they  know  him  by  his  love : 
Here  memories  more  severe  aye  consecrate 
His  sacred  name  ;  hia  country  could  inspire 
E'en  more  than  Laura. 


His  vigils  gave  antiquity  new  life ; 
Imagination  was  no  obstacle 
To  his  deep  studies  :  that  creative  power 
Conquer'd  the  future  and  reveal'd  the  past. 
He  proved  how  knowledge  lends  invenliou  aid ; 
And  more  oncina!  his  genius  seem'd, 
When,  like  the  powers  eternal,  it  could  be 
Present  in  every  time. 

Our  laughing  climate  and  our  air  serene 
Inspired  our  Ariosto :  after  war, 
Our  many  long  and  cruel  w  ars,  he  came 
LiKe  to  a  rainbow  ;  varied  and  as  bright 
As  that  glad  messenger  of  summer  hours, 
His  light,  sweet  gaiety  is  like  nature's  smile, 
And  not  the  irony  of  man. 

Raflaele,  Galileo,  Angelo, 
Pergolese  ;  you !  intrepid  voyagers, 
Greedy  of  other  lands,  though  Nature  never 
Could  yield  ye  one  more  lovely  than  your  own ; 
Come  ye,  and  to  our  poets  join"  your  fame : 
Artists  and  sages,  and  philosophers, 
Ye  are  like  them,  the  children  of  a  sun 
Which  kindles  valor,  concentrates  the  mind, 
Developes  fancy,  each  one  in  its  turn  ; 
Which  lull  scon  tent,  and  seems  to  promise  all, 
Or  make  us  all  forget. 

Know  ye  the  land  where  orange-trees  are  blooming ; 
Where  all  heaven's  rays  are  fertile,  and  with  love  1 
Have  you  inhaled  these  perfumes,  luxury  ! 
In  air  already  so  fragrant  and  so  soft  7 
Now  answer,  strangers;  Nature,  in  your  home, 
Is  she  as  generous  or  as  beautiful  ? 

Not  only  with  vine-leaves  and  ears  of  com 
Is  Nature  dress'd,  but  'neath  the  feet  of  man, 
As  at  a  sovereign's  feet,  she  scatters  flowers 
And  sweet  and  useless  plants,  which,  bora  to  please 
Disdain  to  serve. 


Here  pleasures  delicate,  by  nature  nurst, — 
Felt  by  a  people  who  deserve  to  feel ; 
The  simplest  food  suffices  for  their  wants. 
What  though  her  fountains  flow  with  purple  wine 
From  the  abundant  soil,  they  drink  them  not ; 
They  love  their  sky,  their  arts,  their  monuments ; 
Their  land,  the  ancient,  and  yet  bright  with  spring ; 
Brilliant  society;  refined  delight: 
Coarse  pleasures,  fitting  to  a  savage  race, 
Suit  not  with  them. 

Here  the  sensation  blends  with  the  idea  ; 
Life  ever  draws  from  the  same  fountain  head ; 
The  soul,  like  air,  expands  o'er  earth  and  heaven. 
Here  Genius  feels  at  ease ;  its  reveries 
Are  here  so  gentle ;  its  unrest  is  soothed : 
For  one  lost  aim  a  thousand  dreams  are  given, 
And  nature  cherishes,  'f  man  oppress, 
A  gentle  hand  consoles,  and  binds  the  wound  ; 
E'en  for  the  griefs  that  haunt  the  stricken  heart, 
Is  comfort  here  :  by  admiration  fill'd, 
For  God,  all  goodness  ;  taught  to  penetrate 
The  secret  of  his  love ;  not  by  brief  days- 
Mysterious  heralds  of  eternity— 
But  in  the  fertile  and  majestic  breast 
Of  the  immortal  universe ! 


Corinne  was  interrupted  for  some  momenta 
by  impetuous  applause.  Oswald  alone  joined 
not  in  the  noisy  transport  around  him.  He 
had  bowed  his  head  on  his  hand,  when  Corin- 
ne said — 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


17 


"E'?n  for  the  sorro'.vsof  the  stricken  heart 
Is  comfort  here ;" 

he  had  not  raised  it  since.  Corinne  observed 
him ;  and,  from  his  features,  the  color  of  his 
hair,  his  dress,  his  height — indeed,  from  his 
whole  appearance — recognized  him  as  Eng- 
lish. She  was  struck  by  the  mourning  which 
he  wore,  and  his  melancholy  countenance. 
His  gaze,  then  fixed  upon  herself,  seemed 
gently  to  reproach  her  :  she  entered  into  his 
thoughts,  and  felt  a  wish  to  sympathize  with 
him,  by  speaking  of  happiness  \yth  less  reli- 
ance, and  consecrating  some  few  verses  to 
Death  in  the  midst  of  a  festival.  With  this 
intention  she  again  took  up  her  lyre ;  a  few 
prolonged  and  touching  tones  silenced  the  as- 
•  semblage,  while  thus  she  continued  : — 


Yet  there  are  griefs  which  our  consoling  sky 
May  not  efface:  but  where  will  grief  convey 
Noble  and  sort  impressions  to  the  soul, 
As  it  does  here  ? 

Elsewhere  the  living  cannot  find  them  space 
For  all  their  hurrying  paths,  and  ardent  hopes; 
And  deserts,  ruins,  vacant  palaces, 
Leave  a  vast  vacancy  to  shadows  ; — Rome, 
Is  she  not  now  the  country  of  the  tombs  ? 

The  Coliseum,  and  the  obelisks— 
The  wonders  brought  from  Egypt  and  from  Greece 
From  the  extremity  of  time,  here  met. 
From  Romulus  to  Leo, — all  are  here. 
Greatness  attracting  greatness,  that  one  place 
Might  garner  all  that  man  could  screen  from  time: 
All  consecrate  to  funeral  monuments. 
Our  idle  life  is  scarcely  here  perceived  : 
The  silence  of  the  living  to  the  dead 
Is  homage :  they  endure,  but  we  decay. 

The  dead  alone  are  honor'd,  and  alone 
Recorded  still ; — our  destinies  obscure 
Contrast  the  glories  of  our  ancestors  ; 
Our  present  life  leaves  but  the  past  entire, 
And  deep  the  quiet  around  memory : 
Our  tropnies  are  the  work  of  those  no  more : 
Genius  itself  ranks  'mid  UY  illustrious  dead. 

It  is  Rome's  secret  charm  to  reconcile 
Imagination  with  our  long  last  sleep. 
We  are  resign'd  ourselves,  and  suftVr  less          - 
For  those  we  love.    The  people  of  the  South 
Paint  closing  life  in  hues  less  terrible 
Than  do  the  gloomy  nations  of  the  North: 
The  sun,  like  glory,  even  warms  the  grave. 

The  chill,  the  solitude  of  sepulchres 
'Neath  our  fair  sky,  beside  our  funeral  urns 
So  numerous,  less  haunt  the  frighted  soul. 
We  deem  they  wait  for  us,  you  shadowy  crowd . 
And  from  our  silent  city's  loneliness 
Down  to  the  subterranean  one  below     ' 
Is  a  gentle  passage. 

The  edge  of  grief  is  blunted  thus,  and  turn'd, 
Not  by  a  harden'd  heart,  a  wither'd  soul, 
But  by  a  yet  more  perfect  harmony, — 
An  air  more  fragrant,— b!  ending  with  our  life. 
We  yield  ourselves  to  Nature  with  less  fear — 
Nature,  whose  great  Creator  said  of  old, — 
"The  lilies  of  the  vale,  lo !  they  toil  not, 
And  neither  do  they  spin 
Yet  the  great  Solomon,  in  all  his  glory, 
Was  not  array 'd  like  one  of  thes«." 


Oswald  was  so  enchanted  by  these  stanzas, 
that  ha  testified  his  transport  with  a  vehe- 
mence unequalled  by  the  Romans  themselves  : 
in  sooth,  it  was  to  him,  rather  than  to  her 
countrymen,  that  the  second  improvisation  of 
Corinne  had  been  addressed.  The  generality 
of  Italians  read  poetry  with  a  kind  of  monoto- 
nous chant,  that  destroys  all  effect.  (3)  In 
vain  the  words  vary,  the  impression  is  ever 
the  same,  because  the  accent  is  unchanged  : 
but  Corinne  recited  with  a  mobility  of  tone 
which  increased  the  charm  of  its  sustained 
harmony.  It  was  like  listening  to  different 
airs,  all  played  on  the  same  celestial  organ. 

A  language  so  stately  and  sonorous,  breathed 
by  so  gentle  and  affecting  a  voice,  awakened 
a  very  novel  sensation  in  the  mind  of  Oswald. 
The  natural  beauties  of  the  English  tongue 
are  all  melancholy ;  tinted  by  clouds,  and 
tuned  by  lashing  waves ;  but  Italian,  among 
sounds,  may  be  compared  to  scarlet,  among 
colors  ;  its  words  ring  like  clarions  of  victory, 
and  glow  with  all  the  bliss  a  delicious  clime 
can  shower  on  human  hearts.  When,  there- 
fore, Italian  is  spoken  by  a  faltering  tongue, 
its  splendor  melts,  its  concentrated  force 
causes  an  agitation  resistless  as  unforeseen. 
The  intents  of  nature  seem  defeated,  her 
bounties  useless  or  repulsed  ;  and  the  expres- 
sion of  sorrow  in  the  midst  of  enjoyment, 
surprises,  touches  us  more  deeply,  than  would 
despair  itself,  if  sung  in  those  northern  lan- 
guages, which  it  seems  to  have  inspired. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  senator  took  the  crown  of  bays  and 
myrtle  he  was  to  place  on  the  brow  of  Corinne. 
She  removed  the  shawl  which  had  bound  the 
ebon  curls  that  now  fell  upon  her  shoulders, 
and  advanced  with  an  air  of  pleased  thankful- 
ness, which  she  strove  not  to  dissemble. 
Again  she  knelt,  but  not  in  trepidation,  as  at 
first.  She  had  just  spoken,  had  filled  her  soul 
with  godlike  images ;  enthusiasm  had  sur- 
mounted timidity ;  she  was  no  longer  the 
shrinking  maid,  but  the  inspired  vestal  who 
exultingly  devoted  herself  to  the  worship  of 
Genius. 

When  the  chaplet  was  set  upon  her  heaM, 
the  musicians  sent  forth  one  of  thq^e  trium- 
phant airs  which  so  powerfully  exalt  the  soul. 
The  clash  of  cymbalsi  and  the  flourish  of 
trumpets,  overwhelmed  Corinne  afresh  ;  her 
eyes  filled,  she  sunk  on  a  seat,  and  covered 


18 


CORINNE  ;  OR    ITALY. 


her  face.  Oswald  rushed  from  the  crowd, 
and  made  a  few  sfeps  towards  her,  but  an 
urscontrollable  emotion  kept  him  silent.  Co- 
rinne  looked  on  him  for  some  time,' taking- 
care  however  that  he  should  not  detect  her, 
and  when  Prince  Castel  Forte  took  tier  hand 
to  lead  her  from  the  Capitol,  she  yielded  in 
abstraction,  frequently*  turning-,  on  various 
pretexts,  to  gaze  again  on  Oswald.  He  fol- 
lowed her  ;  and  as  she  descended  the  steps, 
one  of  these  gestures  displaced  her  crown, 
which  Oswald  hastily  raised,  and  presenting 
it,  said  in  Italian  a  few  words,  implying  that 
humble  mortals  lay  at  the  feet  of  their  deities 
the  crowns  they  dare  not  place  upon  their 
brdws.(4)  What  was  his  astonishment  when 
|  Corinne  thanked  him  in  English,  with  that 
|  insular  accent,  which  can  scarce  ever  be 
acquired  on  the  Continent :  he  remained  mo- 
tionless, till,  feeling  himself  almost'  faint,  he 
leaned  against  one  of  the  basaltic  lions  that 
stand  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase.  Corinne 
gazed  oil  him  again,  forcibly  struck  by  his 
emotion  ;  but  they  had  led  her  to  fyer  car,  and 
the  whole  crowd  had  disappeared,  long  ere 
Oswald  recovered  his  presence  of  mind.  Till 
now,  he  had  been  enchanted  with  a  most 
attractive  foreigner;  but  that  English  intona- 
tion had  brought  back  all  the  recollections  of 
his  country,  and,  as  it  were,  naturalized  in  his 
heart  the  charms  of  Corinne.  Was  she  Eng- 
lish! Had  she  not  passed  many  years  of  her 
life  in  England  1  lie  could  not  guess,  but  it 
was  impossible  that  study  alone  could  have 
taught  her  to  speak  thus.  She  must  have 
lived  in  the  same  country  with  himself.  Who 
could  tell,  but  that  their  families  might  have 
been  related  ?  perhaps  he  had  even  seen  her 
in  his  childhood.  There  is  often  in  the  heart 


!  some  innate  image  of  the  beings  we  are  to 

|  love  tliat  lends  to  cur  first  sight  of  them  almost 

I  an  air  of  recognition. 

Oswald  had  believed  the  Italians,  though 
impassioned,  too  vacillating  for  deep  or  con- 
stant affection.  Already  had  the  words  of 
Corinne  given  him  a  totally  distinct  view  of 
their  character.  What  then  must  he  feel 
should  he  thus  at  once  revive  the  remem- 
brance of  his  home,  and  receive  a  new-born 
life,  for  future  enjoyment,  , without  being 

j  weaned  from  the  past  ]     In  the  midst  of  these 

I  reveries  he  found  himself  on  the  bridge  of  St. 

j  Angelo,  which  leads  to  the  castle  of  that 
name,  or  rather  to  Adrian's  tomb,  which  has 

!  been  converted  into  a  fortress.  The  silence 
of  the  scene,  the  pale  waves  of  the  Tiber,  the. 
moonbeams  that  lit  up  the  statues  till  they 
appeared  like  pallid  phantoms,  steadfastly 
watching  the  current  of  time,  by  which  they 
could  be  influenced  no  more  ;  all  these  objects 
recalled  him  to  his  habitual  train  of  thought : 
he  laid  his;  hand  on  his  breast,  and  felt  the 
portrait  of  his  father,  which  he  always  wore  ; 
he  drew  it  forth,  and  gazed  on  it,«while  the 
cause  of  the  felicity  he  had  just  enjoyed  but 
too  strongly  reminded  him  of  all  that  long 
since  had  tempted  his  rebellion  against  his 
parent. 

"  Ever  cherished  remembrance  !"  he  cried, 
with  revived  remorse,  "  too  wronged  and  too 
forgiving  friend  !  could  1  have  believed  that 
an  emotion  of  pleasure  would  so  soon  find 
access  to  my  soul  1  but  it  is  not  thine  indul- 
gent spirit  which  rebukes  me  :  Vhou  wouldst 
have  me  happy  in  spite  of  my  faults ;  or  may 
I  not  mistake  thy  mandates  now  uttered  from 
above.  I  who  misunderstood  them  while  thou 
were  yet  on  earth  V 


BOOK     III. 

CORINNE. 


CHAPTER  I.  ' 

THE  Count  d'Erfeuil  had  been  presented  at 
tne  Capitol,  and  called  the  next  day  on  Lord 
Nelvil,  saying,  "  My  dear  Oswald  !  would  you 
like  me  to  take  y  ou  to  Corinne's  this  evening !" 
"How!"  interrupted1  Oswald  eagerly,  "do 
you  know  .her  *"  "  Not  I ;  but  so  famous  a 
person  is  always  gratified  by  a  desire  to  see 


her  ;  and  I  wrote  this  morning  for  her  per- 
mission to  visit  her  house  to-night  with"  you." 
"  I  could  have  wished,"  replied  Oswald, 
blushing,  "  that  you  had  not  named  me  thus 
without  my  consent."  "You  should  rather 
thank  me  for  having  spared  you  so  many  te- 
dious formalities.  Instead  of  going  to  an 
ambassador,  who  would  have  led  you  to  a 
cardinal,  who  might  have  taken  you  to  a  lady, 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


19 


who,  perhaps,  could  have  introduced  you  to 
Corinne,  I  shall  present  you,  you  will  present 
me,  and  we  shall  both  be  very  well  received." 
"  I  am  less  confident  than  you  ;  and,  doubt- 
less, it  is  but  rational  to  conclude  that  so  hasty 
a  request  must  have  displeased  her."     "  Not 
at  all,  I  assure  you,  she  is  too  sensible  a  girl, 
as  her  polite  reply  may  prove."     "Has  she 
then  answered  you  ?•   What  had  you  said,  rny 
dear  CountV     "Ah!  '  my  dear  Count,'  is  ill" 
[  laughed  d'Erfeuil,  "  you  melt  apace,  now  that 
you  know  that  she  has  answered  me  ;  but  I 
like  you  too  well  not  to  forgive  all  that.     I 
humbly  confess,   then,  that   my  note   spoke 
more  of  myself  than  of  you,  and  that  hers 
i  gives  your 'lordship's  name  precedence;  but 
I  then,  you  know,   I'm   never  jealous    of  my 
|  friends."     "  Nay,"  returned  Nelvil,  "  it  can- 
j  not  be  presumed  that  either  of  us  can  render 
ourselves  agreeable    to   her.     All   I  seek  is 
I  sometimes  to  enjoy  the  society  of  so  wondrous 
i  a  being.     This  evening,  then,  since  you  have 
j  so  arranged  it."     "  You  will  go  with  me  V 
i  "  Why,  yes,"  rejoined  Nelvil  in  visible  confu- 
|  sion.     "  Why  then  all  this  regret  at  what  I've 
done1?  though 'tis  but  just  to  leave  you  the 
honor  of  being  more  reserved  than  I,  always 
provided  that  you  lose  nothing  by  it.     She's 
really  a  delightful  person,  this  Corinne  !  with 
a  vast  deal  of  ease  and  cleverness.     I  could 
not  very  well  make  out  what  she  talked  of, 
but  I'll  wager  you  she  speaks  French  :  we 
can  decide  that  to-night.     She  leads  a  strange 
life.     Young,  free*,  and  wealthy,  yet  no  one 
knows  whether  she  has  any  lovers  or  no.     It 
seems  plain  that  at  present  she  favors  no  one  ; 
j  that  she  should  never  have  met.  in  this  epun- 
j  try,  with  a  man  worthy  of  her,  don't  astonish 
me  in  the  least."     D'Erfeuil  ran  on  for  some 
time,  in  this  kind  of  chat,  without  any  inter- 
ruption from  Oswald.     He  said  nothing  which 
could  exactly  be  called  coarse,  yet  his  light 
matter-of-fact  manner,  on  a  topic  so  interest- 
ing, clashed   with  the  delicacy  of  his  compa- 
nion.    There  is  a  refinement  which  even  wit 
and  knowledge  of  the  world  cannot  teach  their 
votaries,  who  often  wound  the  heart,  without 
violating  strict  politeness. 

Lord  Nelvil  was  much  disturbed  during  the 
day  in  thinking  over  the  visit  of  the  evening  ; 
j  but  he  did  his  utmost  to  banish  his  disquieting 
i  presentiments,  and  strove  to  persuade  himself 
|  that  he  might  indulge  a  pleasing  sentiment, 
|  without  permitting  it  to  decide  his  fate. 
j  False  hope !  the  heart  can  receive  no  bliss 
j  from  that  which  it  knows  must  prove  evanes- 
!  cent.  Accompanied  by  the  Count,  he  arrived 
1  at  the  house  of  Corinne,  which  was  situated 
j  a  little  beyond  the  castle  of  St.  Angelo,  com- 
[  manding  a  view  of  the  Tiber.  Its  interior 
was  ornamented  with  the  most  perfect  ele- 


gance. The  hall  was  embellished  with  caats 
of  the  Niobe,  Laocoon,  Venus  de  Medicis, 
and  dying  Gladiator ;  while  in  the  sitting- 
room  usually  occupied  by  Corinne,  he  found 
but  books,  musical  instruments,  and  simple 
furniture,  arranged  for  the  easy  conveisation 
of  a  domestic  circle.  Corinne  was  not  there 
when  he  entered  ;  and,  while  waiting  for  her, 
he  anxiously  explored  the  apartment,  remark- 
ing in  its  evary  detail  a  happy  combination  of 
the  best  French,  Italian,  and  English  attri- 
butes ;  a  taste  for  society,  a  love  of  letters, 
and  a  zeal  for  the  fine  arts.  Corinne  at  last 
appeared ;  though  ever  picturesque,  she  was 
attired  without  the  least  research.  She  wore 
some  antique  cameos  in  her  hair,  and  round 
her  throat  a  band  of  coral.  Natural  and 
familiar  as  she  was  among  her  friends,  they 
still  recognized  the  divinity  of  the  Capitol. 
She  bowed  first  to  Count  d'Erfeuil,  though 
looking  at  his  friend  ;  then,  as  if  repenting 
this  insincerity,  advanced  towards  Oswald, 
addressing  him  as  "  Lord  Nelvil,"  she  twice 
repeated  that  name,  as  if  it  was  associated  in 
her  mind  with  some  affecting  reminiscence. 
At  last  she  said  a  few  words  in  Italian  on  his 
obliging  restoration  of  her  crown.  Oswald 
endeavored  to  express  his  admiration,  and 
gently  complained  of  her  no  longer  addressing 
him  in  English.  "Am  I  a  greater  stranger 
than  I  was  yesterday  1"  he  said.  "  Certainly 
not,"  she  replied ;  "  but  when  one  has  been 
accustomed  for  many  years  of  one's  life  to 
speak  two  or  three  different  languages,  one 
chooses  that  which  will  best  express  what  one 
desires  to  say."  "  Surely,"  he  cried,  "  Eng- 
lish is  your  native  tongue — that  which  you 
|  speak  to  your  friends."  "  I  am  an  Italian," 
j  interrupted  Corinne.  '  "  Forgive  me,  my  lord! 
but  I  think  I  perceive  in  you  the  national  im- 
portance which  so  often  characterizes  your 
countrymen.  Here  we  are  more  lowly,  nei- 
ther self-complacent,  like  the  French,  nor 
proud  of  ourselves,  like  the  English.  A  little 
indulgence  suffices  us  from  strangers ;  and 
we  have  the  great  fault  of  wanting,  as  indivi- 
duals, that  dignity  which  we  are  not  allowed 
as  a  people  ;  but  when  you  know  us,  you  may 
find  some  traces  of  our  ancient  greatness, 
such  as,  though  few  and  half-effaced,  might 
be  restored  by  happier  times.  I  shall  now 
j  and  then  speak  to  you  in  English,  but  Italian 
I  is  more  dear  to  me.  I  have  suffered  much," 
j  she  added,  sighing,  "that  I  might  live  in 
j  Italy."  D'Erfeuil  here  gallantly  upbraided 
I  her  for  conversing  in  languages  of  which  he 
was  entirely  ignorant.  "  In  mercy,  fair  Co- 
rinne," he  said,  "  speak  French,  you  are  truly 
worthy  to  do  so."  She  smiled  at  this  com- 
pliment, and  granted  its  request,  with  ease, 
1  with  purity,  but  with  an  English  accent. 


20 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


Nelvil  and  the  Count  were  equally  astonished  ; 
but  the  latter,  who  believed  that  he  might  say 
what  he  pleased,  provided  he  did  so  with  a 
grace,  imagining  that  impoliteness  dwelt  not 
in  matter  but  in  manner,  put  the  direct  ques- 
tion to  Corinne,  on  the  reason  of  this  singu- 
larity. She  seemed  at  first  somewhat  uneasy, 
beneath  this  sudden  interrogation  ;  then  re- 
covering herself,  said,  "Perhaps,  monsieur, 
that  I  learnt  French  of  an  English  person." 
He  renewed  his  attack  with  earnest  gaiety. 
Corinne  became  more  confused,  and  at  last 
said,  gravely,  "  During  the  four  years  that  I  j 
have  pared  in  Rome,  monsieur,  none  even  of  ' 
the  friends  most  interested  in  me  have  ever 
inquired  into  my  fate  :  they  understood,  from 
the  first,  that  it  was  painful  for  me  to  speak 
of  it."  This  check  silenced  the  Count ;  but 
Corinne  feared  that  she  had  hurt  him  ;  and, 
as  he  seemed  so  intimate  with  Lord  Xelvil, 
she  dreaded  still  more,  without  confessing  it 
to  herself,  that  he  might  speak  unfavorably  of 
her  to  his  companion,  and  therefore  took 
sufficient  pains  in  atoning  to  him.  The 
Prince  Caslel  Forte  now  arrived,  with  many 
of  their  mutual  acquaintance,  men  of  lively 
and  amiable  miriTls,  of  kind  and  courteous 
manners,  so  easily  animated  by  the  conversa- 
tion of  others,  so  capable  of  appreciating  all 
that  desired  approval,  that  they  make  the  best 
listeners  possible.  The  Italians  are  usually 
too  indolent  to  display  in  society,  or  often  in 
any  way,  thr;  wit  they  really  possess.  The 
generality  of  them  cultivate  not,  even  in  se- 
clusion, the  intellectual  faculties  of  their  na- 
tures ;  but  they  revel  in  the  mental  delights 
which  find  them  without,  any  trouble  of  their 
own.  Corinne  had  all  a  Frenchwoman's  sense 
of  the  ridiculous,  and  evinced  it  with  all  the 
fancy  of  an  Italian  ;  but  she  mingled  in  both 
such  sweetness  of  temper  that  nothing  ap- 
peared preconcerted  or  hostile — for,  in  most 
things,  it  is  coldness  which  orTends ;  while 
vivacity,  on  the  contrary,  has  almost  invaria- 
bly an  air  of  good  nature. 

Oswald  found  ia  Corinne  a  grace  which  he 
had  never  before  met.  A  terrible  event  of 
his  life  was  associated  with  recollections  of  a 
ry  lovely  and  gifted  Frenchwoman  ;  but 
orinne  in  no  way  resembled  her.  Every 
kind  of  talent  seemed  united  in  the  conversa- 
tion he  now  partook.  Ingeniously  aivd  rapid- 
ly as  she  twined  its  flowers,  nothing  was 
frivolous,  nothing  incomplete  ;  such  was  her 
depth  of  feeling,  and  knowledge  of  the  world, 
that  he  felt  borne  away,  and  lost  in  wonder,  at 
!  qualities  so  contrasted.  He  asked  himself,  if 
;  it  was  from  an  all-embracing  sensibility,  or 
from  a  forgctfulness  of  each  mood,  as  a  new 
one  succeeded,  that  she  fled,  almost  in  the 
same  instant,  '•  from  grave  to  gay,  from  lively 


:     Vf 

c 


to  severe,"  from  the  learning  which  might 
have  instructed  men,  to  the  coquetry  of  a 
woman  who  amused  herself  by  making  con- 
quests ;  yet,  in  this  very  coquetry,  there  was 
such  perfect  nobleness,  that  it  exacted  as 
much  respect  as  the  most  scrupulous  reserve. 
The  Prince  Castel  Forte,  and  all  her  other 
guests,  paid  her  the  most  assiduous  and  deli- 
cate attention.  The  habitual  homage  with 
which  they  surrounded  her,  gave  the  air  of  a 
fete  to  every  day  of  her  life.  She  was  happy 
in  being  beloved,  just  as  one  is  happy  to 
breathe  in  a  gentle  clime,  to  hear  harmonious 
sounds,  and  receive,  in  fact,  none  but  agree- 
able impressions.  Her  lively  and  fluctuating 
countenance  betrayed  each  emotion  of  her 
heart ;  but  the  deep  and  serious  sentiment  of 
love  was  not  yet  painted  there.  Oswald 
gazed  on  her  in  silence  :  his  presence  ani- 
mated and  inspired  her  with  a  wish  to  please  ; 
nevertheless,  she  sometimes  checked  hersejf, 
in  the  midst  of  her  most  brilliant  sallies,  as- 
tonished at  his  external  composure,  and  doubt- 
ing whether  he  might  not  secretly  blame  her, 
or  if  his  English  notions  could  permit  him  to 
approve  such  display  in  a  woman.  He  was, 
however,  too  fascinated  to  remember  his 
former  opinions  on  the  obscurity  which  best 
becomes  a  female  ;  but  he  asked  himself,  who 
could  ever  be  loved  by  her  ]  What  single 
object  could  ever  concentrate  so  many  rays, 
or  t;;ke  captive  a  spirit  gifted  with  such  glo- 
rious wings  ?  In  truth,  he  was  alike  dazzled 
and  distressed  ;  nay,  though,  as  he  took  leave, 
she  politely  invited  him  to  visit  her  again,  a 
whole  day  elapsed  without  his  going  to  her 
house,  restrained  by  a  species  of  terror  at  the 
reeling  which  had  carried  him  away.  Some- 
times he  compared  it  with  the  fatal  error  of  his 
early  youth,  but  instantly  rejected  such  com- 
parison. Then  it  was  by  treacherous  arts  he 
had  been  subdued ;  and  who  could  doubt  the 
truth,  the  honor  of  Corinne '?  Were  her 
spells  those  of  poetry  or  of  magic  1  Was 
she  a  Sappho  or  an  Armida  ?  It  was  impos- 
sible to  decidet  Yet  it  was  evident,  that  not 
society,  but  Heaven  itself,  had  formed  this 
extraordinary  being,  whose  mind  was  as 
inimitable  as  her  character  was  unfeigned. 
"Oh,  my  father !"  he  sighed,  "  had  you 
known  Corinne,  what  would  you  have  thought 
of  her  !" 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  Count  d'Erfeuil  called  on  Lord  Nel- 
vil, as  usual,  next  morning ;  and,  censuring 
him  for  not  having  visited  Corinne  the  pre- 


COR1NNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


21 


ceding  night,  said  gaily,  "You  would  have 
been  delighted  if  you  had."  "And  v,  hy!" 
usked  his  friend.  "  Because  yesterday 
me  the  most  satisfactory  assurance  that  you 
have  extremely  interested  her."  "  Still  this 
levity!  Do  you  kno\v  that  I.  neither  can  nor 
will  endure  it  V  "  What  you  call  levity  is 
rather  the  readiness  of  my  observation  :  have 
I  the  less  reason,  because  my  reason  is 
active !  You  \vere  formed  to  grace  those 
blest  patriarchal  days  when  man  had  five 
centuries  to  Jive  ;  but  I  warn  you  that  we 
have  retrenched  four  of  them  at  least."'  "Be 
it  so!  And  what  may  you  have  discovered 
by  these  quickly  matured  observations  of 
yours  ?"  "  That  Corinne  is  in  love  with  you. 
Last  evening  when  I  went  to  her  house,  I 
was  well  enough  received,  of  course  ;  but 
her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  door,  to  look 
whether  you  followed  me.  She  attempted  to  i 
speak  of  something  else  ;  but,  as  she  happens  ' 
to  be  a  mighty  natural  young  person,  she 
presently,  in  ail  simplicity,  asked  why  you 
were  nut  with  me  !  I  said,  because  you 
would  not  come,  and  that  you-  were  a  gloomy, 
eccentric  creature  :  I'll  spare  you  whatever  I 
might  have  further  said  in  your  praise.  '  He 
is  pensnre,'  remarked  Corinne  :  '  doubtless  he  I 
has  lost  some  one  who  was  dear  to  him  :  for  j 
whom  is  he  in  mourning  "?'  '  His  father,  ma- 
dame,  though  it  is  more  than  a  year  since  his 
death  ;  and,  as  the  law  of  nature  obliges  us 
to  survive  our  relations,  I  conclude  that  some 
more  private  cause  exists  for  his  long  and 
settled  melancholy.'  '-Oh,'  exclaimed  she, 
'  I  am  far  from  thinking  that  griefs,  apparent- 
ly the  same,  act  alike  on  all.  The  father  of 
your  friend,  and  your  friend  himself,  were  not, 
perhaps,  men  of  the  common  order.  I  am 
greatly  inclined  to  think  so.'  Her  voice  fra.s 
so  sweet,  clear  Oswald,  as  she  uttered  these 
words!"  "And  are  these  all  your  proofs  of 
her  interest  in  me  V  "  Why,  truly,  with  half 
of  them  I  should  make  sure  of  being  beloved ; 
but  since  you  will  have  better,  you  shall.  I 
kept  the  strongest  to  come  last.  The  Prince 
Castel  Forte  related  the  whole  of  your  ad- 
venture at  Ancona,  without  knowing  that  it 
was  of  you  he  spoke.  He  told  the  story  with  j 
much  warmth  and  spirit,  as  far  as  I  could 
judge,  thanks  to  the  two  Italian  lessons  I  have 
taken  :  but  there  are  so  many  French  words 
in  all  foreign  languages,  that  one  understands 
them,  without  the  fatigue  of  learning.  Be- 
sides, Corinne's  face  explained  what  I  should 
not  else  have  comprehended.  'Tvvas  so  easy 
to  read  the  agitation  of  her  heart :  she  would 
scarcely  breathe,  for  fear  of  losing  a  single 
word  ;  when  «he  inquired  if  the  name  of  this 
Englishman  was  known,  her  anxiety  was 
such,  that  I  could  very  well  estimate  the 


dread  she  suffered,  lest  any  other  name  than 
yours  should  be  pronounced  in  reply.  Castel 
Forte  confessed  his  ignorance  ;  and  Corinne, 
turning  eagerly  to  me,  cried,  '  -Am  I  noi 
monsieur  !  was  it  not  Lord  Nelvil  ?'  ' 
inadame.'  said  I,  and  then  she  mtli  ' 
tears.  She  had  not  wept  during  the  Is: 
what  was  there  in  the  name  of  its  hero  more 
affecting  than  the  recital  itself!"  "  She 
\\ept!"  repeated  Oswald.  "  Ah,  why  was  I 
not  there?"  then  instantly  checking  himself, 
he  cast  down  his  e3res,  and  his  maniy  face  ex- 
pressed the  most  delicate  timidity.  He  hur- 
riedly resumed  the. topic,  lest  d'Erfeuil  should 
impair  his  sacred  joy  by  one  comment.  "  It 
the  adventure  at  Ancona  he  worth  the  telling, 
its  honor  belongs  to  you  also,  my  dear  Count." 
"  They  certainly  did  speak  of  a  most  engag- 
ing Frenchman,  who  was  with  you,  my  Lord," 
lejoined  d'Erfeuil,  laughing ;  "  but  no  one, 
save  myself,  paid  any  attention  to  that  paren- 
thesis. The  lovely  Corinne  prefers  you, 
doubtless  believing  that  you  will  prove  more 
faithful  than  I — this  muy  not  be  the  case — 
you  rnay  even  cost  her  more  pains  than  I 
should  have  done ;  but  your  very  romantic 
women  love  trouble,  therefore  you  will  suit 
her  exactly."  Nelvil  smarted  beneath  every 
word  ;  but  what  could  he  say  ?  D'Erfeuil 
never  argued  ;  nay,  he  could  not  even  listen 
with  sufficient  attention  to  alter  his  opinions  : 
once  uttered,  he  cared  no  more  about  them, 
and  the  best  plan  was  to  forget  them,  if  pos- 
sible, as  quickly  as  he  did  himself. 


CHAPTER.  III. 

THAT  evening  Oswald  reached  the  house 
of  Corinne  with  entirely  new  sensations. 
He  fancied  that  he  might  be  expected.  How 
entrancing  that  first  beam  of  intelligence  be- 
tween one's  self  and  the  being  we  adore! 
Ere  memory  extends  in  the  he-art  with  hope, 
ere  the  eloquence  of  words  has  sought  to  de- 
pict our  feelings,  there  is,  in  these  first  hours 
of  love,  some  indefinite  and  mysterious  charm, 
more  fleeting,  but  mote  heavenly  than  even 
happiness  itself. 

Oswald  found  Corinne  alone  :  this  abashed 
him  much  :  he  could  have  gazed  on  her  in 
the  midst  of  her  friends  ;  but  would  fain  have 
been  in  some  way  convinced  of  her  prefer- 
ence, ere  thus  suddenly  engaged  in  an  inter- 
view which  might  chill  her  manner  towards 
him  ;  and  in  that  expectation  his  own  address 


22 


CORINXE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


became  cold  from  very  embarrassment. 
Whether  she  detected  this,  or  that  similar 
feelings  made  her  desire  to  remove  his  re- 
straint, sh'e  speedily  inquired  if  he  had  yet 
seen  any  of  the  antiquities  of  Rome.  "  No." 
"Then  how  were  you  employed  yesterday  ?" 
she  asked  with  a  smile.  "  I  passed  the  day 
at  home.  Since  I  came  hither  I  have  seen 
bat  you,  madame,  or  remained  alone."'  She 
wished  to  speak  of  his  conduct  at  Ancon'a, 
and  began,  "  I  learnt  last  night — "  here  she 
paused  and  then  said,  "but  I  will  talk  of  that 
when  our  party  have  joined  us."  Lord  Nel- 
vil  had  a  dignity  which  intimidated  Corinne  ; 
besides,  she  feared,  in  alluding  to  his  noble 
behavior,  that  she  should  betray  too  much 
emotion ;  and  trusted  to  feel  less  before  wit- 
nesses. Oswald  was  deeply  touched  by  this 
reserve,  and  by  the  frankness  with  which  she 
unconsciously  disclosed  its  motive  ;  but  the 
more  oppressed  he  became,  the  IP*-,  could  he 
explain  himself.  He  hastily  rose,  and  went 
to  the  window  ;  then  remembering  that  this 
action  must  be  unintelligible  to  Corinne,  he 
returned  to  his  seat  without  speaking  ;  and 
though  she  had  more  confidence  than  himself, 
his  diffidence  proved  so  contagious,  that,  to 
cover  her  abstraction,  she  ran  her  fingers 
over  her  harp,  and  struck  a  few  unconnected 
chords  :  these  melodious  sounds,  though  they 
reased  the  emotions  of  Oswald,  lent  him  a 
slight  degree  of  firmness  He  dared  to  look 
on  her ;  and  who  could  do  so  without  being 
struck  by  the  divine  inspiration  enthroned  in 
her  eyes  1  Re-assured  by  the  mildness  which 
veiled  their  splendor,  he  might  have  spoke'n, 
had  not  Prince  Castel  Forte  that  instant  en- 
tered the  room.  It  was  not  without  a  pang 
that  he  beheld  Nelvil  tele-a-tet.e  with  Corinne  : 
but  he  was  accustomed  to  conceal  his  sensa- 
tions, and  that  habit,  which  an  Italian  often 
unites  with  the  most  vehement  passions,  in 
him  was  rather  the  result  of  lassitude  and 
natural  gentleness.  He  had  resigned  the 
hope  of  being  the  first  object  of  Corinne's 
regard  ;  he  was  no  longer  young.  He  h"d 
just  the  wit,  taste,  and  fancy,  which  varies, 
without  disturbing  one's  existence  ;  and  felt 
it  so  needful  for  his  life  to  pass  every  evening 
with  Corinne,  that,  had  she  married,  he  would 
have  conjured  her  husband  to  let  him  con- 
tinue this  routine ;  qn  which  condition  it 
would  not  have  cost  him  much  regret  to  see 
her  united  with  ai  other.  The  heart's  disap- 
pointments are  nut,  in  Italy,  aggravated  by 
those  of  vanity.  You  meet  some  men  jeal- 
ous enough  to  stab  their  rivals,  others  suffi- 
ciently modest  to  accept  the  second  place  in 
the  esteem  of  a  woman  whose  company  they 
enjoy  ;  but  you  seldom  find  those  who,  rather 
than  appear  rejected,  deny  themselves  the 


pleasure  of  keeping  up  a  blameless  intimacy. 
The   dominion   of  society   over   self-love   is 
scarcely   known    in    the    land.     The    Count 
d'Erfeuil  and  Corinnc's  v/onted  guests  having  ij 
assembled,  the  conversation    turned    on   the  •  ! 
talent  for   improvisation,  which   she    had    so    ! 
gloriously  displayed  at  the  Capitol  ;  and  she  jj 
was   asked   what   she  thought  of  it   herself,  ji 
"It  is  so  rare   a  thing,"  said   Castel  Forte,  l! 
"  to  find  a  person  at  once  susceptible  of  en-  |! 
thusiasm,  and  capable  of  analysis  ;  endowed  ;; 
I  as  an   artist,  yet  gifted   with   so  much  self-  -i 
i  knowledge,   that   we    ought    to   implore   her  j 
|  revelation  of  her  own  secret."     "  The  faculty  i 
of  extemporising,"  returned  Corinne,  "  is  not 
more  extraordinary  in  southern  tongues,  than 
senatorial    eloquence   or    lively   repartee    in  ' 
other  languages.     I    should    even    say   that,  ; 
unfortunately,  it   is  easier  .for  us  to  breathe  : 
j  impromptu  verse  than  to  speak  well  in  prose. 

from  which  poetry  differs  so  widely,  that  the    , 
j  first  stanzas,  by  their  mere   expressions,  re-    i 
move  the  poet  from  the  sphere  of  his  auditors,  | 
and  thus  command  attention.     It  is  not  only 
to  the  sweetness  of  Italian,  but  to   the  em-  |j 
phatic    vibration    of  its    syllables,   that   we    : 
should    attribute    the     influence    of*  poetry 
amongst  us.      Italian  has  a  musical  charm 
which  confers  delight  by  the  very  sound  of  its 
words,  almost  independent  of  ideas,  though 
nearly  all  those   words  are   so   graphic,  that    i 
they   paint   their   own    significations    on   the  ;j 
mind  :  you  feel  that  only  in  the  midst  of  the  :| 
|  arts,  and  beneath  a  beauteous   sky,  could  a  ;' 
I  language   so   melodious   and    highly-colored    i 
i  have   had  birth.     It  is,  therefore,  easier   in    | 
I  Italy  than  anywhere  else  to  dazzle   by  words,  i 
I  unaided  by  depth  or  novelty  of  thought.     Po-  ; 
i  etrj',  like  all  the  fine  arts,  captivates  the  sen- 
1  ses  as   much   as  the   mind.     Nevertheless,  I 
venture  to  assert,  that  I  never  act  the  ivnpro- 
visatrice,  unless  beneath  some  real  feeling,  or  ' 
some  image  which  I  believe  original.     I  hope 
that  I  rely  less  than  others  on  our  bewitching 
tongue  ;  on  which,  indeed,  one  may  prelude    , 
at   random,  and    bestow   a    vivid    pleasure,   j 
solely  by  the  charm   of  rhythm  and  of  har- 
ii:ony."     "  You  think,  then,"  said  one  of  her  | 
friends,   "  that   this   genius   for   spontaneous  i 
verse  does  injury  to  our  literature  7    I  thought  ! 
so  too,  till   I    heard   you,  who  have   entirely  i 
reversed   my  decision."     "  I  have  said,"  re-  j 
turned  Corinne,  "  that  from  this  facility  and 
abundance  must  result  a  vast  quantity  of  in-  j 
different  poems  ;  but  I  rejoice  that  such  fruit-  j 
fulness  should  exist  in  Italy,  as  I   do  to  see 
oui  plains  covered  with  a  thousand  superflu-   j 
ous   productions.     I  pride  in  this  bounty  of  j 
Heaven.     Above  all,  I  love  to  find  improvi-  \\ 
satores  among  the  common  people  ;  it  shows 
that  imagination  of  theirs  which  is  concealed 


CORIXN 


23 


in  other  countries,  and  only  developes  itself 
amongst  us.     It   gives  a   poetic    air   to  the 
!'  humblest   ranks   of   society,    and1  spares   us  : 
•  from  the  disgust  \ve  cannot  help  feeling,  at  ! 
what  is  vulgar.     When  our  Sicilians,  while  | 
rowing  the  traveller  in  their  barks,  bid  him  in  j 
their  graceful  dialect  an  endearing  welcome,  | 
I,  or  sing  him  a  kind   and  long   farewell,  one 
i|  misrht  dream  that  the   pure  breath  of  heaven 
ji  acted  on  man  as  on  an  /Eolian  harp;  and 
I  that  the  one,  like  the  other,  echoed  but  the  j 
I'  voice  of  nature.     Another  reason  why  I  set  j 
this  value  on  our  talent  for  improvisation  is.  I 
i:  that  it  appears  one  which  could  not  possibly  | 
|   survive  among  a  community  disposed  to  ridi- 
j:  cule.     Poets  who  risk  this  perilous  enterprise 
j   require  all  the  good  humor  of  a  country  in 
\.  which  men   love  to  amuse  themselves,  with- 
out critically  analysing  what  amuses  them. 
•   A  single  sneer  would   suffice  to  banish  the 
!   self-possession  necessary  for  rapid  and  unin- 
|:  terrupted  composition.     Your   hearers   must 
warm  with  you,  and  their  plaudits  must  be, 
your    inspiration."     "  But,    madame,"    said 
Oswald,  who,  till  now,  had  gazed  in  silence 
on  Corinne,  "  to  which  class  of  your  poems 
do  you  give  the  preference  1  those  that  are  the 
works  of  reflection,  or  such  as  were  instanta- 
neously  inspired  ?"      "  My    Lord,"    replied 
Corinne,  with  a  look  of  gentle  deference,  "  I 
will  make  you  my  judge ',  but  if  you  bid  me 
examine  my  own  heart,  I  should  say  that  im- 
provisation is,  to  me,  like  animated  converse. 
I  do  not  confine  myself  to  such  or  such  sub-  i 
jects,  but  yield  to   the  impression  xv^iich  the  | 
interest  of  my  hearers  produces  on  myself;  ' 


and  it  is  to  my  friends  that  I  owe  the  greater 


portion  of  my  talent  in  this  line.  Sometimes, 
while  they  speak  of  the  noble  questions  that 
involve  the  moral  condition  of  man, — the  aim 
and  end  of  his  duties  here, — my  impassioned 
excitement  carries  me  beyond  myself ;  teach- 
|;  es  me  to  find  in  nature,  and  mine  own  heart, 
such  daring  truths,  and  forcible  expressions, 
as  solitary  meditation  could  not  have  engen- 
dered. My  enthusiasm,  then,  seems  super- 
natural :  a  spirit  sparkles  within  me  far 
greater  than  mine  own  ;  it  often  happens  that 
I  abandon  the  measure  of  verse,  to  explain 
•  my  thoughts  in  prose.  Sometimes  I  quote 
!  the  most  applicable  passages  from  the  poets 
'  of  other  lands.  Those  divine  apostrophes 
are  mine,  while  my  soul  is  filled  by  their  im- 
port. Sometimes  rny  lyre,  by  a  simple  na- 
tional air,  may  complete  the  effect  which  flies 
from  the  control  of  words.  In  truth,  I  feel 
myself  a  poet,  less  when  a  happy  choice  of 
rhymes,  of  syllables,  of  figures,  may  dazzle 
my  auditors,  than  when  my  spirit  soars  most 
disdainful  of  all  that  is  selfish  and  base  ; 
when  noble  actions  appear,  most  easy  to  me, 


'tis  then  my  verse  is  best.  I  am.  indeed,  a 
poet  while  I  admire  or  hate,  not  by  my 
personal  feelings,  nor  in  mine  own  cause,  but 
for  the  sake  of  human  dignity,  and  the  glory 
of  the  world  !"  * 

Corinne,  now  perceiving  how  far  she  had 
been  borne  away;  blushed,  and,  turning  to 
Lord  Nelvil,  said,  "  You  see  I  cvinnot  touch 
on  any  of  the  themes  that  affect  me,  without 
that  kind  of  thrill  which  is  the  source  of1 
ideal  beauty  in  the  arts,  of  religion  in  the  re- 
cluse, generosity  iu  heroes,  and  disinterested- 
ness among  men.  Pardon  me,  my  Lord  : 
however  little  I  may  resemble  those  women 
who  are  most  esteemed  in  your  country." 
li  Who  can  resemble  yon  ?"  replied  Oswald  ; 
"  and  who  shall  make  laws  for  a  being  so 
peculiar  !"  « 

Count  d'Erfeuil  was  actually  spell-bound, 
without  understanding  all  she  said  ;  her  ges- 
tures, voice,  and  manner,  charmed  him.  It 
was  the  first  time  that  any,  save  French 
graces,  had  moved  him  thus.  But,  to  say 
truth,  the  popularity  of  Corinne  aided  and 
sanctioned  his  judgment;  so  that  he  might 
have  admired  her  without  relinquishing  his 
convenient  habit,  of  being  guided  by  the  opi- 
nion of  others.  As  they  left,  the  house  together, 
he  said  to  his  friend,  "  Confess,  now,  dear 
Oswald,  that  I  have  some  merit  in  not  paying 
my  court  to  so  delightful  a  person."  "  But," 
replied  Nelvil,  "do  they  not  say  that  she  is 
difficult  to  please  ?"  "  They  say,  but  I  don't 
believe  it.  A  single  woman,  who  leads  as  it 
were  the  life  of  an  artist,  can't,  be  difficult  to 
please."  Xelvil's  feelings  were  wounded  by 
this  remark,  but  whether  d'Erfeuil  saw  it  or 
not,  or  was  resolved  to  follow  the  bent  of  his 
own  inclinations,  he  continued,  "  Not  but  that, 
if  I  could  believe  in  any  woman's  virtue,  I 
should  trust  hers  above  all.  *  She  has  certainly 
a  thousand  times  more  ardor  than,  were  re- 
quired in  your  country,  or  even  in  mine,  to 
create  doubts  of  a  lady's  cruelty  ;  yet  she  is 
a  creature  of  such  superior  tact  and  informa- 
tion, that  the  ordinary  rules  for  judging  her 
sex  cannot  be  applied  to  her.  Would  you 
believe  that  I  find  her  manners  imposing? 
they  overawe  me  in  spite  of  her  careless  affa- 
bility. I  wished  yesterday,  merely  out  of 
gratitude  for  her  interest  in  you,  to  hazard  a 
lew  words  on  my  own  account ;  such  as  make 
what  way  they  can  ;  if  they  are  listened  to, 
so  much  the  better,  if  not.  why  that  may  be 
luckier  still ;  but  Corinne  looked  on  me  coldly, 
and  I  was  altogether  disconcerted.  Is  it  not 
absurd  to  feel  out  of  countenance  before  an 
Italian,  a  poet,  in  fine,  everything  that  ought 
to  put  a  man  at  his  ease  ]"  "  Her  name  is 
unknown,"  replied  Nelvil,  "but  her  beharior 
assures  us  that  she  is  highly  born."  "  Nay, 


I  24, 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


'tis  only  the  fashion  of  romance  to  conceal 
one's  nobility  :  in  real  life,  people  tell  every- 
thing that  can  do  themselves  credit,  and  even 
a  little  more  than  the  truth  ''  "  Yes,  in  some 
societies,  where  they  think  but  of  the  effect 
produced  on  others;  but  here,  where  lite  is 
more  domestic,  here  there  may  be  secrets, 
which  only  he  who  is  to  marry  Corinne  should 
seek  to  fathom."  "  Marry  Corinne !".  repeated 
d'Erfeuil,  laughing  vehemently,  "  such  a  no- 
tion never  entered  my  head.  My  dear  Nelvil, 
f  you  will  commit  extravagances,  let  them  be 
such  as  are  not  irreparable.  In  marriage  one 
should  consult  nothing  but  convenience  and 
decorum.  You  think  me  frivolous;  never- 
theless I'll  engage  that  my  conduct  in  life 
shall  be  more  rational  than  your  own."  "  I 
don't  doubt  it,"  returned  Nelvil,  without  ano- 


j  ther  word  ,  for  how  could  he  tell  the  Count 

I  that  there  \v  j.s  much  selfishness  in  frivolity  ? 

!  or  that  vanity  never  leads  a  man  towards  the 
error  of  sacrificing  himself  for  another  ? 
Triflers  are  very  capable  of  cleverly  directing 
their  own  affairs  :  for,  in  all  that  may  be  called 
the  science  of  policy,  in  private  as  in  public 
life,  men  oftener  succeed  by  the  absence  of 

|  certain  qualities  than  by  any  which  they  pos- 
sess. 

A  deficiency  of  enthusiasm,  of  settled  opi- 
nions, and  of  sensibility,  is  a  negative  treasure, 
on  which,  with  a  little  talent,  rank  and  for- 
tune may  easily  be  acquired  or  maintained. 
The  jests  of  d'Erfeuil  had  pained  Lord  Nelvil 
much :  he  condemned  them,  but  still  they 
haunted  him  most  importunately. 


,    B  O  O   K     IV. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  next  fortnight  Oswald  devoted  exclu- 
sively to  the  society  of  Corinne.  He  never 
left  his  house  but  to  visit  her.  He  saw,  he 
sought  for  nothing  besides ;  and,  without 
speaking  of  his  love,  he  made  her  sensible  of 
it  every  hour  in  the  day.  She  was  accus- 
tomed to  the  lively  an'd  flattering  tributes  of 
the  Italians  ;  but  the  dignified  deportment  and 
apparent  coldness  of  Oswald,  through  which 
his  tenderness  of  heart  so  often  broke,  in  spite 
of  himself,  exercised  a  far  greater  power  over 
her  imagination.  He  never  related  a  generous 
deed  or  a  tale  of  misfortune,  but  his  eyes  filled, 
though  he  always  strove  to  hide  this  weak- 
ness. It  was  long  since  she  had  felt  such 
respect  as  that  which  he  awakened.  No 
genius,  however  distinguished,  could  have 
awed  her ;  but  elevation  of  character  acted 
deeply  on  her  mind.  Oswald  added  to  this 
an  elegance  which  pervaded  the  most  trivial 
actions  of  his  life,  and  contrasted  strongly 
with  the  negligent  familiarity  of  the  Roman 
nobles.  Although  some  of  his  tastes  were 
uncongenial  to  her  own,  their  mutual  under- 
standing was  wonderful  They  read  each 
other's  hearts  in  the  lightest  alteration  of 
countenance.  Habituated  as  he  was  to  the 
most  tempestuous  demonstrations  of  passion, 


this  proud  retiring  attachment,  continually 
proved,  though  never  confessed,  shed  a  new 
interest  over  her  life.  She  felt  as  if  sur- 
rounded by  a  purer,  sweeter  atmosphere  t  and 
every  moment  brought  with  it  a  sense  of  hap- 
piness in  which  she  revelled,  without  seeking 
to  define  its  source. 

One  morning  Prince  Castel  Forte  came  to 
her.  evidently  dispirited.  She  asked  the 
cause.  "  This  Scot,"  sighed  he,  "  is  weaning 
your  affection  from  us,  and  who  knows  but  he 
may  even  carry  you  far  hence  ]"  Corinne 
was  mute  for  some  moments,  and  then  replied, 
"  I  protest  to  you  he  has  never  said  he  loves 
me."  "  You  know  it,  nevertheless :  he  speaks 
to  you  by  his  life,  and  his  very  silence  is  but 
an  artful  plan  to  attract  your  notice.  What, 
indeed,  can  any  one  say  to  you  that  you  have 
not  already  heard  *  What  kind  of  praise  have 
you  not  been  offered  1  But  there  is  something 
veiled  and  reined  in  about  the  character  of 
Lord  Nelvil,  which  will  never  permit  you  to 
judge  it  wholly  as  you  do  ours.  You  are  the 
most  easily  known  person  in  the  world  ;  but 
it  is  just  because  you  voluntarily  show  your- 
self as  you  are,  that  reserve  and  mystery  both 
please  and  govern  you.  The  unknown,  be  it 
what  it  may,  has  a  greater  ascendency  over 
you  than  all  the 'professions  which  could  be 
tendered  by  man."  Corinne  smiled.  "  You 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


25 


think  then,  dear  Prince,"  she  said,-  "  that  my 
heart  is  ungrateful,  and  my  fancy  capricious] 
I  believe,  however,  that  Lord  Nelvil  evinces 
qualities  too  remarkable  for  me  to  flatter  my- 
self as  their  discoverer."  ''  I  allow,"  rejoined 
Castel  Forte,  "  that  he  is  high-minded,  intel- 
ligent, even  sensitive,  and  melancholy  above 
all ;  hut  I  am  much  deceived  if  his  pursuits 
have  the  least  affinity  with  yours.  You-  can- 
not perceive  this,  so  thoroughly  is  he  influ- 
enced by  your  presence  ;  but  your  empire 
would  not  last  were  he  absent  from  you. 
Obstacles  would  fatigue  a  mind  warped  by  the 
griefs,  he  has  undergone,  by  discouragements 
which  must  have  impaired  the  energy  of  his 
resolutions ;  besides,  you  know  what  slaves 
are  the  generality  of  English  to  the  manners 
and  habits  of  their  country."  These  words 
recalled  to  the  mind  of  Corinne  the  painful 
events  of  her  early  years.  She  sighed,  and 
spoke  not ;  but  in  the  evening  she  again  he- 
held  her  lover,  and  all  that  remained  as  the 
effect  of  the  Prince's  counsel  was  a  desire  so 
to  enamor  Nelvii  of  the  varied  beauties  with 
which  Italy  is  blest,  that  he  would  make  it 
his  home  for  life.  With  this  design  she  wrote 
him  the  following  letter.  The  free  life  led  at 
Rome  excused  her,  and,  much  as  she  might 
be  reproached  with  a  too  rash  degree  of  can- 
dor, she  well  knew  how  to  preserve  a  modest 
dignity,  even  in  her  most  independent  pro- 
ceedings. 

"  TO    LORD    NELVIL. 

Dec.  15,  1794. 

"  I  know  not,  my  lord,  if  you  will  think  me 
too  self-confident,  or  if  you  can  do  justice  to 
my  motives.  I  heard  you  say  that  you  had 
not  yet  explored  Rome,  that  you  knew  nothing 
either  of  the  chefo-d'ceuvres  of  our  fine  arts, 
or  the  antique  ruins  that  teach  us  history  by 
imagination  and  sentiment.  I  conceived  the 
idea  of  daring  to  propose  myself  as  your  guide 
through  the  mazes  of  long-gone  years. 

"  Doubtless  Rome  can  boast  of  many  men 
whose  profound  erudition  might  be  far  more 
useful ;  but  if  I  succeed  in  endearing  to  you 
an  abode  towards  which  I  have  always  felt  so 
imperiouslv  drawn,  your  own  studies  will 
complete  wuat  my  imperfect  sketches  may 
begin. 

"  Many  foreigners  come  hither,  as  they  go 
to  London  or  Paris,  seeking  but  the  dissipation 
of  a  great  city ;  and  if  it  were  not  treason  to 
confess  themselves  weary  of  Rome,  I  believe 
the  greatest  part  of  them  would  do  so.  But  it 
is  equally  true,  that  here  may  he  found  a 
charm  of  which  none  could  ever  sate  Will 
you  pardon  me,  my  lord,  for  wishing  that  this 
charm  may  be  known  to  you  ? 


"  It  is  true  that  you  must  first  forget  all  the 
political  relations  of  the  world  ;  but  when  they 
are  not  linked  With  our  sacred  duties,  thety  do 
but  freeze  the  heart.  It  is  necessary  also  to 
renounce  what  is  elsewhere  called  the  pleas- 
ures of  society  ;  but  do  they  not  too  frequently 
wither  up  the  mind  ]  One  tastes  in  Rome  a 
life  at  once  secluded  and  enlivened,  which 
liberally  matures  in  our  breasts  whatever 
heaven  hath  planted  there. 

"  Once  more,  my  lord,  pardon  this  love  for 
my  country,  which  makes  me  long  to  know 
it  beloved  by  a  man  like  yourself;  and  do  not 
judge  with  English  severity  the  pledges  of 
good  will  that  an  Italian  believes  it  her  right 
to  jestow,  without  losing  anything  in  her  own 
eyes  or  in  yours.  ' 

"  CORINNE." 

In  vain  would  Oswald  have  concealed  from 
himself  his  ecstasy  at. receiving  this  letter: 
it  opened  to  him  glimpses  of  a  future  all  peace 
and  joy,  enthusiasm,  love,  and  wisdom  :  all 
that  is  most  divine  in  the  soul  of  man  seemed 
blended  in  the  enchanting  project  of  exploring 
Rome  with  .Corinne.  He  considered — he 
hesitated  no  more ;  but  instantly  started  for 
her  house,  and,  on  his  way,  looked  up  to 
heaven,  enjoyed  its  pure  influences,  for  life 
was  no  longer  a  burden.  Regret  and  fear 
were  lost  behind  the  golden  clouds  of  hope  ; 
his  heart,  so  long  oppressed  by  sadness, 
throbbed  and  bounded  with  delight ;  he  felt 
that  such  a  state  could  not  last ;  but  even  hi.3 
sense  of  its  transitoriness  lent  this  fever  of 
felicity  but  a  more  active  force. 

"  You  are  come  !"  cried  Corinne,  as  he 
entered.  "  Ah,  thank  you  !"  She  offered  him 
her  hand ;  he  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  with  a 
tenderness  unqualified  by  that  afflicting  tremor 
which  so  often  mingled  with  his  happiness, 
and  embittered  the  presence  of  those  he  loved 
the  most.  An  intimacy  had  commenced  be- 
tween them  since  they  had  last  parted,  esta- 
blished by  the  letter  of  Corinne  ;  both  were 
content,  and  felt  towards  one  another  the 
sweetest  gratitude. 

"  This  morning,  then,"  said  Corinne,  "  I 
will  show  you  the  Pantheon  and  St.  Peter's.  I 
trusted,"  she  added,  smilingly,  "  that  you  would 
not  refuse  to  make  the  tour  of  Rome  with  me  ; 
so  my  horses  are  ready.  I  expected  you — 
you  are  here — all  is  well — let  us  go." 
"  Wondrous  creature !"  exclaimed  Oswald. 
"  Who  then  are  you  T  Whence  do  you  derive 
charms  so  contrasted,  that  each  might  well 
exclude  the  others  1 — feeling,  gaiety,  depth, 
wildness,  modesty  !  Art  thou  an  illusion  1  an 
unearthly  blessing  for  those  who  meet  thee  ?" 
"  Ah  !  if  I  have  but  power  to  do  you  any  ser- 
vice," she  answered,  "  believe  not  that  I  wiJl 


26 


CORINXE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


ever  renounce  it."  "  Take  heed,"  replied  he, 
seizing  her  hand  with  emotion  ;  "  be  careful 
of  what  benefit  you  confer  on  me.  For  two 
years  an  iron  grasp  has  pressed  upon  my 
ij  heart.  If  I  feel  some  r'elief  while  breathing 
j  your  sweet  presence,  what  will  become  of  me 
I  when  thrown  hack  on  mine  own  fate  ?  \Vhat 
shall  I  be  then  V  "  Let  us  leave  that  to  time 
[  and  chance,"  interrupted  Corinne  ;  "  they  wiil 
decide  whether  the  impression  of  an  hour  shall 
I  last  beyond  its  day.  If  our  souls  commune, 
our  mutual  affection  will  not  be  fugitive  :  be 
that  as  it  may,  let  us  admire  together  all  that 
can  elevate  our  minds ;  we  shall  thus,  at  least, 
secure  some  happy  moments."  So  saying, 
she  descended.  Nelvil  followed  her,  aston- 
ished at  her  reply  :  it  seemed  that  she  admit- 
ted the  possibility  of  a  momentary  attachment 
to  him,  yet  he  fancied  that  he  perceived  a 
fickleness  in  her  manner,  which  piqued  him 
even  to  pain  ;  and  Corinne,  as  if  she  guessed 
this,  said,  when  they  were  seated  in  her  car- 
riage, "I  do  not  think  the  heart  is  so  consti- 
tuted that  it  must  either  feel  no  love  at  all,  or 
the  most  unconquerable  passion.  There  are 
early  symptoms  which  may  vanish  before 
self-examination.  We  flatter,  we  deceive 
ourselves  ;  and  the  very  enthusiasm  of  which 
we  are  susceptible,  if  it  renders  the  enchant- 
ment more  rapid,  may  also  bring  the  re-action 
more  promptly."  "  You  have  reflected  much 
upon  this  sentiment,  madame,"  observed  Os- 
wald, with  bitterness.  Corinne  blushed,  and 
was  silent  for  some  moments,  then  said,  with 
a  striking  union  of  frankness  and  dignity,  li  I 
suppose  no  woman  of  heart  ever  reached  the 
age  of  twenty-six  without  having  known  the 
illusions  of  love ;  but  if  never  to  have  been 
happy,  never  to  have  met.  an  object  worthy  of 
her  full  affection,  is  a  claim  on  sympathy,  I 
have  a  right  to  yours."  The  words,  the 
accent  of  Corinne,  somewhat  dispersed  the 
clouds  that  gathered  over  Nelvil's  thoughts  ; 
yet  he  said  to  himself,  "  She  is  a  most  engag- 
ing creature,  but  she  is — an  Italian 

Is  not  a  shrinking,  innocent  heart,  even  to 
itself  unknown,  such  as,  I  doubt  not,  beats  in 
!  the  bosom  of  the  English  girl  to  whom  my 
father  destined  me." 

Lucy  Edgarmond  was  the  daughter  of  his 
parent's  best  friend  ;  but  too  young,  when  he 
left  England,  for  him  to  marry  her,  or  even 
foresee  wiat  ehe  might  one  day  become. 


CHAPTER  II. 

OSWALD  and  Corinne  went  first  to  the  Pan- 
theon, now  called  Santa  Maria  of  the  Rotunda. 
Throughout  Italy  the  Catholic  hath  been  the 
Pagan's  heir;  but  this  is  the  only  antique 
temple  in  Rome  which  has  been  preserved 
entire ;  the  only  one  wherein  we  may  behold, 
unimpaired,  the  architecture  of  the  ancients, 
and  the  peculiar  character  of  their  worship. 

Here  they  paused  to  admire  the  portico 
and  its  supporting  columns.  Corinne  bade 
Oswald  observe  that  this  building  was  con- 
structed in  such  a  manner  as  made  it  appear 
much  larger  than  it  was.  "  St.  Peter's," 
she  said,  "  produces  an  opposite  effect :  you 
will,  at  first,  think  it  less  vast  than  it  is  in 
reality.  The  deception,  so  favorable  to  the 
Pantheon,  proceeds,  it  is  conceived,  from  the 
great  space  between  the  pillars,  and  from  the 
air  playing  so  freely  within  ;  but  still  more 
from  the  absence  of  ornament,  with  which  St. 
Peter's  is  overcharged.  Even  thus  di.l  an- 
tique poetry  design  but  the  massive  features 
of  a  theme,  leaving  the  reader's  fancy  to  sup- 
ply the  detail :  in  all  affairs  we  moderns  say 
and  do  too  much. 

"  This  fane,"  continued  Corinne.  "  was 
consecrated  by  Agrippa,  the  favorite  of  Au- 
gustuf ,  to  his  friend,  or  rather,  his  uiaster ; 
who,  however,  had  the  humility  to  refuse  this 
dedication ;  and  Agrippa  was  reduced  to  the 
necessity  of  devoting  it  to  all  the  gods  of 
Olympus,  and  of  substituting  their  power  for 
that  of  one  earthly  idol.  On  the  top  of  the 
Pantheon  stood  a  car,  in  which  were  placed 
the  statues  of  Augustus  and  Agrippa.  On 
each  side  of  the  portico  similar  effigies  were 
displayed?  in  other  attitudes  ;  and  over  the 
front  of  the  temple  is  still  legible,  '  Conse- 
crated by  Agrippa.'  Augustus  gave  his  name 
to  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  by  rendering  it 
an  era  in  the  progress  of  human  intellect. 
From  the  chefs-d'ceui-res  of  his  contempora- 
ries emanated  the  rays  that  formed  a  circling 
halo  round  his  brow.  He  knew  how  to  honor 
men  of  letters  in  his  own  day  ;  and  posterity, 
therefore,  honors  him. 

"  Let  us  enter  the  temple  :  it  is  said  that 
the  liffht  which  streams  in  from  above  was 
considered  the  emblem  of  a  divinity  superior 
to  the  highest  divinities.  The  heathens  ever 
loved  symbolical  irnasfes  :  that  language,  in- 
deed, seems  to  accord  better  with  religion 
than  with  common  parlance.  The  rain  often 
falls  on  this  marble  floor  ;  b'ut  the  sunshine 
succeeds  to  efface  it  and  teaches  the  worship- 
per. What  a  serene  yet  festal  air  is  here ! 
The  Pagans  deified  life,  as  the  Christians 
sanctify  death  ;  such  is  the  distinction  between 
the  two  faiths ;  but  Catholicism  here  is  far 


COR  [NNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


less  gloomy  than  in  th'e  north,  as  you  will 
observe  whep  we  visit  St.  Peter's.  In  the 
sanctuary  of  the  Pantheon  the  busts  of  our 
most  celebrated  artists  decorate  the  niches 
once  filled  by  ideal  gods.  Since  the  empire 
ot  the  Caesars,  we  have  scarce  ever  boasted 
any  political  independence  ;  consequently,  you 
will  find  no  statesmen,  no  heroes  here.  Ge- 
nius constitutes  our  only  fame ;  but  do  you 
not  think,  my  lord,  that  a  people  who  thus 
revere  the  talents  still  Jeft  amongst  them  must 
deserve  a  nobler  destiny  V  "  I  believe,"  re- 
plied Oswald,  "  that  nations  generally  deserve 
their  own  fates,  whatever  they  may  be." 
"  That  is  severe  !  but,  perhaps,  by  living  in 
Italy,  your  heart  may  soften  towards  the  fair 
land  which  nature  has  adorned  like  a  victim 
for  sacrifice.  At  least  remember,  that  the 
dearest  hope  the  lovers  of  glory  cherish  is 
that  of  obtaining  a  place  here.  I  have  already 
chosen  mine,"  she  added.,,  pointing  to  a  niche 
still  vacant.  "  Oswald,  who  knows  but  you 
may  one  day  return  to  this  spot,  when  my 
bust — "  "  Hold  !"  interrupted  he  ;  "  can  you, 
resplendent  in  youth  and  beauty,  talk  thus  to 
one  whom  misfortune  even  now  is  bending 


towards    the 


grave 


Ah !"    exclaimed 


Corinne,  "  the  storm  may  in  a  moment  dash 
down  flowers  that  have  not  yet  begun  to  droop. 
Oswald,  dear  Oswald  !  why  are  you  not  hap- 
py ?"  "  Never  ask  me,"  he  replied  ;  "  you 
have  your  secrets,  and  I  mine  :  let  us  respect 
our  mutual  silence.  You  know  not  what  I 
should  suffer  if  forced  to  relate  my  distresses." 
Corinne  said  no  more  ;  but  her  steps,  as  she 
left  the  temple,  became  slow,  and  her  looks 
more  pensive. 

She  paused  beneath  the  portico.  "  There," 
she  said,  "  stood  a  porphyry  urn  of  great 
beauty,  now  removed  to  St.  John  Lateran  ;  it 
contained  the  ashes  of  Agrippa,  which  were 
deposited  at  the  foot  of  the  statue  he  had 
erected  to  himself.  The  ancients  lavished 
such  art  on  sweetening  the  idea  of  destruction, 
that  they  succeeded  in  banishing  all  its  most 
dreary  and  alarming  traits.  There  was  such 
magnificence  in  their  tombs,  that  the  contrast 
between  the  nothingness  of  death  and  the 
splendors  of  life  was  less  felt.  It  is  certain, 
too,  that  the  hope  of  another  world  was  far 
less  vivid  amongst  them  than  it  is  with 
Christians.  They  were  obliged  to  contest 
with  death  the  principle  which  we  fearlessly 
confide  to  the  bosom  of  our  eternal  Father." 

Osward  sighed,  and  spoke  not ;  melancholy 
ideas  have  many  charms,  when  we  are  not 
ourselves  deeply  miserable  ;  but,  while  grief, 
in  all  its  cruelty,  reigns  over  the  breast,  we 
cannot  hear  without  a  shudder  words  which, 
of  old,  only  excited  reveries  not  more  sad  than 
soothing. 


CHAPTER  III. 

IN  going  to  St.  Peter's,  they  crossed  the 
bridge  of  St.  Angelo  on  foot.  "  It  was 
there,"  said  Oswald,  "  that,  on  my  way  from 
the  Capitol,  I,  for  the  first  time,  mused  long 
on  you."  "  I  did  not  flatter  myself,"  she  re-  j 
joined,  "  that  this  coronation  at  the  Capitol 
would  gain  me  a  friend  ;  yet,  still  in  toiling 
for  celebrity,  I  have  ever  wished  that  it  might 
make  me  beloved  :  of  what  avail  would  it  be, 
at  least  to  a  woman,  without  such  expecta- 
tion ?"  "  Let  us  stay  here  awhile,"  said  Os- 
wald. "  Can  by-gone  centuries  afford  me  one 
remembrance  equal  to  that  of  the  day  on 
which  I  beheld  you  first '?"  "  I  may  err," 
answered  Qorinne,  "  but  I  think  persons  be- 
come most  endeared  to  each  other  while  par- 
ticipating in  the  admiration  of  works  which 
speak  to  the  soul  by  their  true  grandeur. 
Thos^  of  Rome  are  neither  cold  nor  mute  ; 
conceived,  as  they  were,  by  genius,  and  hal- 
lowed by  memorable  events.  Nay,  perhaps, 
Oswald,  one  could  not  better  learn  to  love  the 
possessor  of  a  character  like  yours  than  by 
enjoying  with  him  the  noble  beauties  of  the 
universe."  "  But  I,"  returned  Oswald, 
"  while  gazing,  listening  beside  you,  need  the 
presence  of  no  other  wonder."  Corinne 
thanked  him  by  a  gracious  smile. 

Pausing  before  the  castle  of  St.  Angelo, 
she  pursued  :  "  This  is  one  of  the  most  ori- 
ginal exteriors  among  all  our  edifices  :  the 
tomb  of  Adrian,  fortified  by  the  Goths, — bear- 
ing a  double  character  from  its  successive 
uses.  Built  for  the  dead,  an  impenetrable 
circle  enclosed  it ;  yet  the  living  have  added 
more  hostile  defences,  which  contrast  strongly 
with  the  silent  and  noble  inutility  of  a  funeral 
monument.  You  see,  at  the  top,  the  bronze 
figure  of  an  angel  with  a  naked  sword  (5)  ;  j 
within  are  prisons,  framed  for  ingenious  tor- 
ture. All  the  epochs  of  Roman  history,  from 
the  days  of  Adrian  to  our  own,  are  associated 
with  this  site.  Belisarius  defended  it  against 
the  Goths  ;  and,  with  a  barbarism  scarce  in- 
ferior to  their  own,  hurled  on  them  the  beau- 
teous statues  that  adorned  the  interior.  Cres- 
centii's,  Arnault  de  Brescia,  and  Nicolas  Ri- 
enzi  (6),  those  friends  of  Roman  liberty,  who 
so  oft  mistook  her  memories  for  her  hopes, 
long  defied  their  foes  from  this  tomb  of  an  em- 
peror. I  love  each  stone  connected  wita 
so  many  glorious  feats.  I  applaud  the  master 
of  the  world's  luxurious  taste — a  magnificent 
tomb.  There  is  something  great  in  the  man 
who,  while  possessing  all  the  pomps  and 
pleasures  of  the  world,  fears  not  to  employ 
his  mind  so  long  in  preparations  for  his  death. 
Moral  ideas  and  disinterested  sentiments  must,, 
fill  the  soul  that,  in  any  way,  outsteps  th/il 
boundaries  of  life. 


28 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


"  To  this  point,"  continued  Corinne,  "  ought 
the  pillars  in  front  of  St.  Peter's  extend  ; 
such  was  the  superb  plan  of  Michael  Angelo, 
which  he  trusted  his  survivors  would  com- 
plete ;  but  the  men  of  our  day  think  not  of 
posterity.  When  once  enthusiasm  has  been 
turned  into  ridicule,  all  is  defeated,  except 
wealth  and  power."  "It  is  for  you  to  re- 
generate it,"  cried  Nelvil.  "  Who  ever  ex- 
perienced such  happiness  as  I*  now  taste  ? 
Rome  shown  me  by  you !  interpreted  by 
imagination  and  genius  !  What  a  world  is 
Rome  thus  animated  by  sentiment,  without 
which  the  world  itself  were  but  a  desert !  (7) 
Ah,  Corinne  !  what  is  to  follow  these  the 
sweetest  days  that  my  fate  and  heart  e'er 
granted  me  ]"  "  All  sincere  affections  come 
direct  from  Heaven,"  she  answered,  meekly. 
"  Why,  Oswald,  should  it  not  protect  what  it 
inspires  1  'It  is  for  Heaven  to  dispose  of  us 
both." 

At  last  they  beheld  St.  Peter's  ;  the  great- 
est edifice  ever  erected  by  man  :  for  even  the 
Egyptian  Pyramids  are  its  inferiors  in  height. 
"  Perhaps,"  said  Corinne,  "  I  ought  to  have 
shown  you  the  grandest  of  our  temples  last ; 
I  but  that  is  not  my  system.  It  appears  to  me 
that,  to-  perfect  a  sense  of  the  fine  arts,  one 
should  begin  by  contemplating  the  objects 
which  awaken  the  deepest  and  most  lively 
admiration.  This,  once  felt,  reveals  a  new 
sphere  of  thought,  and  renders  us  capable  of 
loving  and  judging  whatever  may,  even  in  an 
humbler  quality,  revive  the  first  impression 
we  received.  All  cautious  and  graduated 
attempts  at  producing  a  strong  effect  are 
against  my  taste..  We  do  not  arrive  at  the 
sublime  by  degrees,  for  infinite  distances 
separate  it  even  from  that  which  is  only 
beautiful." 

Oswald  felt  the  most  extraordinary  sensa- 
tions when  standing  in  front  of  St.  Peter's. 
It  was  the  first  time  the  work  of  man  had 
affected  him  like  a  wonder  of  nature.  It  is 
the  only  work  of  art  on  the  face  of  the  globe 
that  possesses  the  same  species  of  majesty 
which  characterizes  those  of  creation.  Co- 
rinne enjoyed  his  astonishment.  "  I  have 
selected,"  she  said,  "  a  day  when  the  sun  is 
in  all  his  splendor  ;  still  reserving  for  you  a 
yet  more  holy  rapture,  that  of  beholding  St. 
Peter's  by  moonlight ;  but  I  wished  you  first 
to  be  present  at  this  most  brilliant  spectacle — 
the  genius  of  man  bedecked  by  the  magnifi- 
cence of  nature." 

The  square  of  St.  Peter's  is  surrounded  by 
pillars,  which  appear  light  from  a  distance, 
but  massive  as  you  draw  nearer  :  the  sloping 
ascent  towards  the  porch  adds  to  the  effect 
produced.  An  obelisk,  of  eighty  feet  in 


height,  which  looks  scarce  raised  above  the 
earth,  in  presence  of  the  cupola,  stands  in  the 
centre.  The  mere  form  of  an  obelisk  is 
pleasing  to  the  fancy  :  it  loses  itself  in  an, 
as  if  guiding  the  thoughts  of  man  towards 
heaven.  This  was  brought  from  Egypt  to 
adorn  the  baths  of  Caligula,  and  afterwards 
removed  by  Sixtus  V.  to  the  foot  of  St.  Pe- 
ters, beside  which  this  contemporary  of  so 
many  ages  that  have  loft  no  traces  upon  it, 
creates  a  sentiment  of  awe.  Man  feels  him- 
self so  perishable,  that  he  bows  before  the 
presence  of  immutability.  At  some  distance, 
on  each  side  of  the  obelisk,  are  two  fountains, 
whose  waters,  perpetually  gushing  upwards, 
fall  again  in  abundant  cascades.  Their  mur- 
murs, such  as  we  are  wont  to  hear  in  wild  and 
rural  scenes,  lend  a  strange  charm  to  this 
spot,  yet  one  that  harmonizes  with  the  stilling 
influence  of  that  august  cathedral.  Painting 
and  sculpture,  whether  representing  the  hu- 
man form,  or  oilier  natural  objects,  awaken 
clear  and  intelligible  images  ;  but  a  perfect 
piece  of  architecture  kindles  that  aimless 
revery,  which  bears  the  soul  we  know  not 
whither.  The  ripple  of  water  well  accords 
with  these  vague  yei  deep  impressions  :  it  is 
uniform,  as  the  edifice  is  regular.  "  Eternal 
motion  and  eternal  rest"  seem  here  united, 
defying  even  time,  who  has  no  more  sullied 
the  source  ot  those  pure  springs  than  shaken 
the  base  of  that  commanding  temple.  These 
sheaves  of  liquid  silver  dash  themselves  into 
spray  so  fine,  that  on  sunny  days  the  light 
will  form  them  into  little  rainbows,  tinted 
with  all  the  iris  hues  of  the  prism. 

"  Stop  here  a  moment,"  said  Corinne  to 
Keivil,  who  was  already  beneath  the  portico : 
'•pause,  ere  you  unveil  the  sanctuary:  does 
riot  your  heart  throb  as  you  approach *it,  as  if 
anticipating  -some  solemn  event  !"  She 
raised  the  curtain  herself,  and  held  it  back  for 
Nelvil  to  pass,  with  such  a  grace  that  his 
first  look  was  on  her,  and  for  some  seconds 
he  could  observe  nothing  else  ;  yet  he  entered 
the  interior,  and  soon,  beneath  its  immense 
arches,  was  filled  by  a  piety  so  profound  that 
love  alone  no  longer  sufficed  to  occupy  his 
breast.  He  walked  slowly  beside  Corinne. 
Both  were  mute.  There  everything  com- 
mands silence ;  for  the  least  sound  is  re- 
echoed so  far,  that  no  discourse  seems  worthy 
to  be  thus  repeated,  in  such  an  almost  eternal 
abode.  Even  prayer,  the  accent  of  distress, 
springing  from  whatever  feeble  voice,  rever- 
berates deeply  through  its  vastness,  and  when  j 
we  hear,  from  far,  the  trembling  steps  of  age, 
on  the  fair  marble,  watered  by  so  many  tears, 
man  becomes  imposing  from  the  very  infirmi- 
ties that  subject  h's  divine  spirit  to  so  much 


==J 


\ 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


29 


of  wo :  and  we  feel  that  Christianity,  the 
creed  of  suffering,  contains  the  true  secret 
which  should  direct  cur  pilgrimage  on  earth. 

Corinne  broke  on  the  meditations  of  Os- 
wald, saying-,  "  You  must  have  remarked  that 
the  Gothic  churches  of  England  and  Ger- 
many have  a  far  more  gioomy  character  than 
this.  Northern  Catholicism  has  in  it  some- 
tiling-  mystic  ;  ours  speaks  to  the  imagination 
by  external  objects.  Michael  Angeio,  on  bo- 
holding  the  dome  of  the  Pantheon,  exclaimed, 
'  I  will  place  it  in  the  air  !' — ifcdeed  St.  Pe- 
ter's is  a  temple  based  upon  a  church  ;  its 
interior  weds  the  ancient  and  modern  faiths 
in  the  mind  :  I  frequently  wander  hither  to 
regain  the  composure  my  spirit  sometimes 
loses.  The  sight  of  $uch  a  building  is  like  a 
ceaseless,  changeless  melody,  here  awaiting 
to  console  all  who  seek  it  :  and,  among  our 
national  claims  to  glory,  let  me  rank  the 
courage,  patience,  and  disinterestedness  of 
the  chiefs  of  our  church,  who  have,'  for  so 
many  years,  devoted  such  treasures  to  the 
completion  of  an  edifice  which  its  founders 
could  not  expect  to  enjoy.  (8)  It  is  even 
rendering  a  service  to  public  morality,  to  be- 
stow on  a  nation  a  monument  emblematic  of 
such  noble  and  generous  desires.1'  "  Yes," 
replied  Oswald,  "  here  art  is  grand,  and  ge- 
nius inventive  ;  but  how  is  the  real  dignity  of 
man  sustained  ?  How  weak  are  the  generality 
of  Italian  governments,  yet  how  do  they  en- 
slave 1"  "  Other  nations,"  interrupted  Co- 
rinne, "  have  borne  the  yoke,  like  ourselves, 
and  without  like  power  to  conceive  a  better 
fate, 

'  Servi  siara  si,  ma  servi  ognor  frementi.' 

'  We  are  slaves,  indeed,  but  for  ever  chafing 
beneath  our  bonds,'  said  Al fieri,  the  boldest  of 
our  modern  writers.  With  such,  soul  for  the 
fine  arts,  may  not  our  character  oae  day  equal 
our-genius  1 

"  Look,"  continued  Corinne,  "  at  these 
statues  on  the  tombs,  these  mosaics, — labo- 
rious and  faithful  copies  from  the  chefs- 
cT&uvres  of  our  great  masters.  I  never  ex- 
amine St.  Peters  in  detail,  because  I  am 
grieved  to  find  that  its  multiplied  adornments 
somewhat  impair  the  beauty  of  the  whole. 
Yet  well  may  the  best  works  of  human  hands 
seem  superfluous  here.  This  is  a  world  of 
itself;  a  re.uge  from  both  heat  and  cold:  it 
hath  a  season  of  its  own,  perennial  spring, 
which  the  atmosphere  without  can  never 
affect.  A  subterranean  church  is  built  be- 
neath :  the  popes,  and  many  foreign  princes, 
are  buried  there — Christine,  after  her  abdica- 
tion :  the  Stuarts,  alter  their  dynasty  was 
overthrow^.  Koine,  so  long  an  asylum  for 


the  exile,  is  she  not  herself  dethroned  ?    Her 
aspect  consoles  sovereigns  despoiled  like  her. 


Cadono  le  citti,  cadono  i  reani. 
Et  1'uom,  dcsser  mortal,  parcbe  si 


Dlegni  1 


Yes,  cities  fall,  whole  empires  disappear,  and 
yet  man  is  indignant  that  he  is  mortal  ! 

"  Sland  here,  Nelvil !  near  the  altar,  be- 
neath the  centre  of  the  dome,  you  perceive, 
through  these  iron  gratings,  the  church  of 
the  dead,  which  lies  beneath  our  feet,  and,  on 
raising  your  eyes,  they  can  scarcely  pierce  to 
the  summit  of  the  vault :  do  you  not  feel  as 
if  a  huge  abyss  was  opening  over  your  head? 
Everything  which  extends  beyond  a  certain 
proportion  must  cause  that  limited  creature 
man  uncontrollable  dismay.  What  we  know 
is  as  inexplicable  as  the  unknown  :  we  have 
so  reconciled  ourselves  to  habitual  darkness, 
that  any  new  mystery  alarms  and  confounds 
us. 

"  The  whole  church  is  embellished  by  an- 
tique marbles  who  know  more  than  we  do  of 
vanished  centuries.  There  is  the  statue  of 
Jupiter  converted  into  St.  Peter,  by  the  glory 
which  has  been  set  upon  its  head.  The  gen- 
eral expression  of  the  place  perfectly  typifies 
a  mixture  of  obscure  dogmas  and  sumptuous 
ceremonies  ;  a  mine  of  sad  ideas,  but  such  as 
may  be  soothingly  applied  ;  severe  doctrines, 
capable  of  mild  interpretation  : — Christian 
theology  and  Pagan  images  ;  in  fact,  the  most 
admirable  union  of  all  the  majestic  splendors 
which  man  can  give  to  his  worship  of  the 
Divinity.  Tombs  decked  by  the  arts  can 
scarcely  represent  death  as  a  formidable  ene- 
my :  we  do  not,  indeed,  like  the  ancients, 
carve  sports  and  dances  on  the  sarcophagus  ; 
but  thought  is  diverted  from  the  bier  by  works 
that  tell  of  immortality  even  from  the  altar 
of  death.  Thus  animated,  we  feel  not  that 
freezing  silence  which  constantly  watches 
over  a  northern  sepulchre."  "  It  is,  doubt- 
less, the  purpose  with  us,"  said  Oswald,  "  to 
surround  death  with  appropriate  gloom  :  ere 
we  were  enlightened  by  Christianity,  such 
was  our  mythologic  bias.  Ossian  called 
around  the  tomb  funeral  chants,  such  as  here 
you  would  fain  forget.  I  know  not  if  I  should 
wish  that  your  fair  sky  may  so  far  change 
my  rnood." 

'•  Yet  think  not,"  said  Corinne,  "  that  we 
are  either  fickle  or  frivolous  ;  we  have  too 
little  vanity  :  indolence  may  yield  our  lives 
some  intervals  of  oblivion,  but  they  can  nei- 
ther sate  nor  wither  up  the  heart  :  unfortu- 
nately .we  are  often  scared  from  this  repose 
by  passions  more  terrible  than  those  of  habit- 
ually active  minds."  _  They  were  now  at  the 
doo..  "On;)  more  glanee !"  said  Nelvil 


i!30 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


|  "  See  how  insignificant  is  man  in  the  presence 
1  of  religion  !  whiie  we  shrink  even  before  its 
j  material  emblem  :  behold  what  duration  man 
1  can  give   to  his  achievements,  while  his  own 
j  date  is  so  brief  that  he  soon  survives  but  in 
;  his  fame.     This  temple  is  an  image  of  infini- 
I  tude  ;  there  are  no  bounds  tbr  the  sentiments 
:  to  which  it  gives  birth — the  hosts  of  past  and 
future  years  it  suggests  for  speculation.     On 
leaving  it  we  seem  quilting  a  world  of  hea- 
venly thought  for  one  of  common  interests  ; 
exchanging  religion  and  eternity  for  the  trivial 
pursuits  of  time." 

Corinne  pointed  out  the  bas-reliefs,  from 
Ovid's  Metamorphoses,  on  the  doors.  "  We 
shame  not,"  she  said,  "  in  the  Pagan  trophies 
which  art  has  hallowed.  The  wonders  of 
genius  always  awaken  holy  feelings  in  the 
soul,  and  we  pay  homage  to  Christianity  in 
tribute  of  all  the  best  works  that  other  faiths 
have  inspired."  Oswald  smiled  at  this  expla- 
nation. "  Believe  me,  my  Lord,"  continued 
Corinne,  "  there  is  much  sincerity  among 
.people  of  lively  fancy.  -To-morrow,  it' you 
!  like,  I  will  take  you  to  the  Capitol,  and  I  trust 
I  have  many  such  days  in  store  for  you  ;  but 
— when  they  are  over — must  you  depart  ?" 
She  checked  herself,  fearing  that  she  had 
said  too  much.  "  No,  Corinne,"  cried  Os- 
wald, "  I  cannot  renounce  this  gleam  of  bliss, 
which  my  guardian  angel  seems  to  shower  on 
me  from  above." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  next  day  Oswald  and  Corinne  set  forth 
with  more  confidence  and  calmness.  They 
were  friends,  and  began  to  say  we.  Ah,  how 
affecting  is  that  we,  pronounced  by  love ! 
What  a  timid,  yet  ardent  confession  does  it 
breathe  !  '•  We  go  to  the  Capitol,  then  V 
said  Corinne.  "  Yes,  we  will:"  replied  Os- 
wald, and  his  voice  told  all  in  those  simple 
words  ;  so  full  of  gentle  tenderness  was  his 
accent.  "  Fr«m  the  top  of  the  Capitol,  such 
as  it  is  now,"  said  Corinne,  "  we  can  clearly  see 
the  Seven  Hills  ;  we  will  go  over  them  all 
in  succession  ;  there  is  not  one  but  teems 
with  historica.  recollections."  They  took 
what  was  formerly  called  the  sacred  or  tri- 
'umphnnt  road.  "  Your  car  passed  this  way," 
said  Oswald.  "It  did,"  answered  Corinne, 
'"  the  venerable  dust  might  have  wondered  at 
my  presumption  ;  but  since  the  Roman  re- 
public, so  many  a  guilty  track  has  been  im- 


punted  on  this  road,  that  the  respect  it  once 
demanded  is  decreased."  She  led  him  to  the 
btairs  of  the  present  Capitol  ;  the  entrance 
to  the  original  one  was  by  the  Forum.  "  I 
would,"  she  said,  il  that  vhese  steps  were  the 
sameN  by  which  Scipio  ascended  ;  when,  re- 
pulsing calumny  by  glorious  deeds,  he  went 
to  oiler  thanks  in  the  temple  for  the  victories  I 
he  had  won  ;  but  the  new  staircase  and  Capi- 
tol were  built  on  the  ruins  of  the  old,  to  re- 
ceive the  peaceful  magistrate  who  now  mo- 
nopolizes the  high-sounding  title  of  Roman 
senator,  which  once  extorted  reverence  from 
the  whole  universe.  We  have  but  names 
here  now.  Yet  their  classic  euphony  always 
creates  a  thrill  of  mingled  pleasure  and  regret. 
I  asked  a  poor  woman,  whom  I  met  the  other 
day,  where  she  lived.  '  On  the  Tarpeian 
Rock,'  she  answered.  These  words,  stripped 
as  they  are  of  all  that  once  attached  to  them, 
still  exert  some  power  over  the  fancy." 

Oswald  and  Corir.ne  stopped  to  observe  the 
two  basaltic  lions  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. (9) 
They  came  from  Egypt,  whose  sculptors, 
much  more  faithfully  transmitted  the  forms  of 
animate  than  those  of  men.  The  physiognomy 
of  these  lions  has  all  the  stern  tranquillity, 
the  strength  in  repose,  which  we  find  de- 
scribed by  Dante. 

"  A  guisa  di  Icon — quaodo  si  posa." 

Not  far  from  thence  is  a  mutilated  Rom?n 
statue,  which  the  moderns  have  placed  there, 
unconscious  that  they  thus  display  a  striking 
symbol  of  Rome  as  it  is.  This  figure  has 
neither  head  nor  feet ;  but  the  trunk  and  dra- 
pery that  reinaip  have  still  the  beauty  of  an- 
tiquity. At  the  top  of  the  stairs  are  two 
colossal  statues,  thought  to  represent  Castor 
and  Pollux  ;  then  come  the  trophies  of  Mari- 
us  ;  then  the  two  columns  which  served  to 
measure  the  Roman  empire  ;  lastly,  the  statue 
of  Marcus  Aurelius,  calm  and  beautiful  amid 
contending  memories.  Thus  the  heroic  age 
is  personated  by  these  colosSal  shapes,  the 
republic  by  the  lions,  the  civil  wars  by  Marius, 
and  the  imperial  epoch  by  Aurelius. 

To  the  right  and  left  of  the  modern  Capitol 
two  churches  have  been  erected,  on  the  ruins 
of  temples  to  Jupiter  Feretrius  and  Capitoli- 
nus.  In  front  of  the  vestibule  is  a  fountain, 
over  which  the  geniuses  of  the  Tiber  and  the 
Nile  are  represented  as  presiding,  as  does  the 
she- wolf  if  Romulus.  The  name  of  the  Tiber 
is  never  pronounced  like  that  of  an  inglorious 
stream ;  it  is  a  proud  pleasure  for  a  Roman 
but  to  say,  "  Come  to  the  Tiber's  banks !  Let 
us  cross  the  Tiber!"  In  breathing  such  1 
words  he  seems  to  invoke  the  spirit  of  history,  j 
and  re-animate  the  dead. 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


31 


Going  to  the  Capitol  by  the  way  of  the 
Forum,  you  find,  to  your  right,  the  Mamertine 
prisons,  constructed  by  Ancus  Martius  for 
ordinary  criminals  ;  but  excavated  by  Servius 
Tullius,  into  far  more  cruel  dungeons  for 
state  culprits  ;  as  it"  they  merit  not  most  mercy 
who  err  from  a  zealous  fidelity  to  what  they 
believe  their  duty.  Jugurtha  and  the  friends 
of  Catiline  perished  in  these  cells  :  it  is  even 
said  that  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul  were  confined 
there.  On  the  other  side  of  the  Caphol  is  the 
Tarpeian  Rock,  at  the  foot  of  which  now 
stands  the  Hospital  of  Consolation,  as  if  the 
severe  spirit  of  antiquity,  and  the  sweet  one 
of  Christianity,  here  met,  across  the  wide 
interval  of  years,  as  visibly  to  the  eye  as  to 
the  mind. 

When  Oswald  and  Corinne  had  gained  the 
top  of  the  Capitol,  she  showed  him  the  Seven 
Hills,  and  the  city,  bounded  first  by  Mount 
Palatinns,  then  by  the  walls  of  Servius  Tullius, 
which  enclose  the  hills,  and  by  those  of  Au- 
relian,  which  still  surround  the  greatest  part 
of  Rome.  Corinne  repeated  verses  of  Tibullus 
and  Propertius.  that  glorify  the  weak  com- 
mencement of  what  became  the  mistress  of 
the  world.  (10)  Mount  Palatinus  once  con- 
tained all  Rome ;  but  soon  did  the  imperial 
palace  fill  the  space  that  had  sufficed  for  a 
nation.  A  poet  of  Nero's  day  made  this 
epigram : — 

"  Roma  doaiu?  fiot.    Veios  migrate.  Qufeites ; 
fii  non  et  Vtios  occupat  ista  domus." 

"  Rome  will  soon  be  but  one  palace.  Go  to 
Yeii ;  citizens  !  if  you  can  be  sure  that  this 
palace  will  not  include  even  Yeii  itself." 
The  Seven  Hifls  are  far  less  lofty  now  than 
when  they  deserved  the  title  of  steep  moun- 
tains ;  modern  Rome  being  forty  feet  higher 
than  the  ancient  city,  and  the  valleys  which 
separated  them  almost  filled  up  by  ruins  ;  but 
what  is  still  more  strange,  two  heaps  of  shat- 
tered vases  have  formed  new  hills,  Cestario 
and  Testacio.  Thus,  in  time,  the  very  refuse 
of  civilisation  levels  the  rock  with  the  plain, 
effacing,  in  the  moral  as  in  the  material  world, 
all  the  pleasing  inequalities  of  nature. 

Three  other  hills,  Janiculum,  Yaticanus, 
and  Mario,  not  comprised  in  the  famous  seven, 
j>ive  so  picturesque  an  air  to  Rome,  and  afford 
such  magnificent  views  from  her  interior,  as 
perhaps  no  other  city  can  command.  There 
is  so  remarkable  a  mixture  of  ruins  and  new 
buildings,  of  fair  fields  and  desert  wastes,  that 
one  may  contemplate  Rome  on  all  sides,  and 
ever  find  fresh  beauties. 

Oswald  could  not  weary  of  feasting  his 
gaze  from  the  elevated  point  1o  which  Corinne 
had  led  him.  The  study  of  history  can  never 
act  on  tis  like  the  sight  of  that  scene  itself. 


The  eye  reigns  all  powerfully  over  the  soul. 
He  now  believed  in  the  old  Romans,  as  if  he 
had  lived  amongst  them.  Mental  recollections 
are  acquired  by  reading  ;  those  of  imagination 
are  born  of  more  immediate  impressions,  such 
as  give  life  to  thought,  and  seem  to  render  us 
the  witnesses  of  what  we  learn.  Doubtless 
we  are  annoyed  by  the  modern  dwellings 
which  intrude  on  these  wrecks,  yet  a  portico 
beside  some  humble  roof,  columns  between 
which  the  little  windows  of  a  church  peep 
out,  or  a  tomb  that  serves  for  the  abode  of  a 
rustic  family,  so  blends  the  grand  with  the 
simple,  and  affords  us  so  many  agreeable 
discoveries,  as  to  keep  up  continual  interest. 
Everything  is  common-place  and  prosaic  in 
the  generality  of  European  towns  ;  and  Rome, 
more  frequently  than  any  other,  presents  the 
sad  aspect  of  misery  and  degradation  ;  but  all 
at  once  some  broken  column,  or  half-effaced 
bas-relief,  or  a  few  stones  bound  together  by 
indestructible  cement,  will  remind  you  that 
there  is  in  man  an  eternal  power,  a  divine 
spark,  which  he  ought  never  to  weary  of  fan- 
ning in  his  own  breast,  and  relumine  in  those 
of  others. 

That  Forum,  whose  narrow  enclosure  has 

j  been  the  scene  of  so  many  wondrous  events, 

1  is  a  striking  proof  of  man's  moral  greatness. 

When,  in  the  latter  days  of  Rome,  the  world 

was  subjected  to  inglorious  rulers,  centuries 

passed  from  which  history  could  scarce  extract 

a  single  feat.     This  Forum,  the  heart  of  H 

circumscribed   town,   whose    natives    fought 

i  around  it  against  the  invaders  of  its  territories 

j  — this  Forum,  by  the  recollections  it  retraces, 

'  has  been  the  theme  of  genius  in  every  age. 

Eternal  honor  to  the  brave  and  free,  who  thus 

!'  vanquish  even  the  hearts  of  posterity  ! 
Corinne  observed  to  Nelvil  that  there  were 
I  but  few  vestiges  left  of  the  republic,  or  of  the 
regal  day  which  preceded  it.  The  aqueducts 
and  subterranean  canals  were  their  only  luxu- 
ries, all  that  remains  of  those  ages  are  useful 
edifices,  a  few  tombs,  and  temples  of  brick. 
Not  till  after  the  fall  of  Sicily  did  the  Romans 
adopt  the  use  of  marble  ;  but  it  is  enough  to 
survey  the  spots  on  which  great  actions  have 
been  performed  :  we  experience  that  indefinite 
emotion  to  which  we  may  attribute  the  pious 
zeal  of  pilgrims.  Celebrated  countries  of  all 
kinds,  even  when  despoiled  of  their  great  men 
and  great  works,  exert  a  power  over  the 
imagination.  That  which  would  once  have 
attracted  the  eye  exists  no  more ;  but  the 
charm  of  memory  still  survives. 

The  Forum  now  retains  no  trace  of  that 
famed  tribunal  whence  the  people  were  ruled 
by  the  force  of  eloquence.  There  still  exist 
three  pillars  of  a  temple  to  Jupiter  Tonans, 
raised  by  Augustus,  because  a  thunderbolt  had 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY 


fallen  near  him  there  without  injury.  There  is, 
loo,  the  triumphal  arch  erected  by  the  senate 
lo  requite  the  exploits  of  Septimus  Severus. 
The  names  of  his  Uvo  sons,  Caracalla  and 
Geta,  were  inscribed  on  its  front ;  but  when  Ca- 
racalla  assassinated  his  brother,  his  name  was 
erased  ;  some  marks  of  the  letters  are  yet 
visible.  Further  off  is  a  temple  to  Faustina, 
a  monument  of  the  weakness  of  Marcus  Au- 
relius.  A  temple  to  Venus,  which,  in  the 
republican  era,  was  consecrated  to  Pallas ; 
and,  at  a  little  distance,  the  relics  of  another, 
dedicated  to  the  sun  .find  moon,  by  the  Empe- 
ror Adrian,  who  was  so  jealous  of  the  Greek 
architect,  Apollodorus,  that  he,  pat  him  to 
death  for  censuring  its  proportion. 

On  the  other  side  are  seen  the  remains  of 
buildings  devoted  to  higher  and  purer  aims. 
The  columns  of  one  believed  to  be  that  of 
Jupiter  Stator,  forbidding  fte  Romans  ever  to 
fly  before  their  enemies — the  last  pillar  of  the 
temple  to  Jupiter  Gustos,  placed,  it  is  said, 
near  the  gulf  into  which  Curtius  threw  him- 
self— and  some  belonging  either  ,to  the  Tem- 
ple of  Concord  or  to  that  of  Victory.  Perhaps 
this  conquering  people  confounded  the  two 
ideas,  believing  that  they  could  only  attain 
true  peace  by  subduing  the  universe. 

At  the  extremity  of  Mount  Palatinus  stands 
an  arch  celebrating  Titus's  conquest  of  Jeru- 
salem. It  is  asserted  that  no  Jews  will  ever 
pass  beneath  it  ;  and  the  little  path  they  lake 
to  avoid  it  is  pointed  out.  We  will  hope,  for 
the  credit  of  the  Jews,  that  this  anecdote  is 
true  ;  such  enduring  recollections  well  become 
the  long-suffering.  Not  far  from  hence  is  the 
arch  of  Constantine,  embellished  by  some 
bas-reliefs,  taken  from  the  Forum,  in  the  time 
of  Trajan,  by  the  Christians,  who  resolved 
thus  to  deck  the  monument  of  the  Founder  of 
Peace.  The  arts,  at  this  period,  were  already 
on  the  wane,  and  spoils  from  the  past  were 
made  to  honor  new  achievements. 

The  triumphal  gates  still  seen  in  Rome 
perpetuated,  as  much  as  men  could  do,  the 
respect  paid  to  glory.  There  were  places  for 
musicians  at  their  summits  :  so  that  the  hero, 
as  he  passed,  might  be  intoxicated  at  once  by 
melody  and  praise,  tasting,  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, all  that  can  exalt  the  spirit. 

In  front  of  these  arches  are  the  ruins  of  the 
Temple  to  Peace,  built  by  Vespasian.  It  was 
so  adorned  by  bronze  and  gold  within,  that 
when  it  was  consumed  by  fire,  streams  of 
fused  metal  ran  even  to  the  Forum.  Finally, 
the  Coliseum,  the  grandest  ruin  of  Rome, 
terminates  the  circle  in  which  all  the  epochs 
of  history  seem  collected  for  comparison. 
That  superb  edifice  whose  stones,  now  bereft 
of  marble  and  of  gilding,  once  formed  the 
arena  in  which  the  gladiators  contended  with 


ferocious  beasts.  Thus  were  the  Romans 
amused  and  duped,  by  strong  excitements, 
while  their  natural  feelings  were  denied  their 
exercise.  There  were  two  entrances  to  the 
Coliseum  ;  the  one  devoted  to  the  conqueicrs, 
the  other  that  through  which  they  carried  the 
dead.  $t range  scorn  of  humanity  !  to  decide 
beforehand  the  life  or  death  of  man,  for  mere 
pastime.  Titus,  the  best  of  emperors,  dedi- 
cated the  Coliseum  to  the  Roman  people  ;  and 
!  its  very  ruins  bear  so  admirable  a  stamp  of 
genius,  that  one  is  tempted  to  deceive  one's 
self  on  the  nature  of  true  greatness,  and  grant 
to  {.he  triumphs  of  art  the  praise  which  is  due 
but  to  monuments  that  tell  of  generous  insti- 
tutions. 

Oswald's  enthusiasm  equalled  not  that  of 
Corinne  ;  while  beholding  these  four  galleries, 
rising  one  above  the  other,  in  proud  decay, 
j  inspiring  at  once  respect  and  tenderness,  he 
j  saw   but    the  luxury  of  rulers,  the  blood  of 
slaves,  and  was  almost  prejudiced  against  the 
arts,  for  thus  lavishing  their  gifts,  indifferent 
as  to  the  purposes  to  which  they  were  applied. 
I  Corinne  attempted  to  dombat  this  mood.     "  Do 
|  not,"  she  said,  "  let  your  principles  of  justice 
j  interfere  with  a  contemplation  like  tnis.     I 
have  told  you  that  these  objects  would  rather 
remind  you  of  ancient  taste  and  elegance  than 
I  of  the  age  of  Roman  virtue  ;  but  do  you  not 
i  trace  some  moral  grandeur   in   the  gigantic 
!  splendor  that  succeeded  it  ?     The  very  degra- 
dation   of  the    Romans   is   imposing :    while 
bereaved   of  liberty  they  strewed  thte  earth 
with  wonders ;    and  ideal   beauty   sought  to 
solace  man  for  the  real  dignity  he  had  lost. 
Look  on  these  immense  baths,  open  to  all  who 
wished  to  taste  of  oriental   voluptuousness  ; 
these  circles,  wherein  elephants  once  battled 
with   tigers ;    these  aqueducts,  which  could 
instantaneously  convert  the  arenas  into  lakes, 
where  galleys  raced  in  their  turn,  or  croco- 
diles filled  the  space  just  occupied  by  lions. 
Such  was  the  luxury  of  the  Romans,  when 
luxury   was   their    pride.       Thebc    obelisks, 
brought  from  Egypt,  torn  from  the  African's 
shades  to  decorate  the  sepulchres  of  Romans  ! 
Can  all  this  be  considered  useless  as  the  pomp 
of  Asiatic  despots  ?     No,  you  behold  the  ge- 
nius of  Rome,  the  victor  of  the  world,  attired 
by  the  arts  !     There  is  something  superhuman 
and    poetic:i3    in   this    magnificence,    which 
I  makes  one  forget  both  ks  origin  and  its  aim." 
The  eloquence  of  Corinne  excited,  without 
i  convincing,  Oswald.     He  sought  a  moral  sen- 
I  timent  in  all  things,  and  the  magic   of  art 
could  never  satisfy  him  without  it.     Corinne 
|  now  recollected  that,  in  this  same  arena,  the 
*  persecuted   Christians   had  fallen  victims  to 
;  their  constancy  :  she  pointed  out  the  altars 
;  erected  to  their>ashes,  and  the  path  toward* 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


33 


the  cross  which  the  penitents  trod  beneath 
the  ruins  of  mundane  greatness  :  she  asked 
him  if  the  dust  of  martyrs  spoke  nothing  to 
his  heart.  "  Yes,"  he  cried,  "  deeply  do  I 
revere  the  pow<;r  of  the  soul  over  distress  and 
death  :  a  sacrifice,  be  it  what  it  may,  is  more 
arduous,  more  commendable,  than  all  the 
efforts  of  genius.  Exalted  imagination  may 
work  miracles ;  but  it  is  only  when  we  im- 
molate self  to  principle  that  we  are  truly  vir- 
tuous. Then  alone  does  a  celestial  power 
subdue  the  mortal  in  our  breasts."  These 
pure  and  noble  words,  nevertheless,  disturbed 
Corinne  ;  she  gazed  ou  Nelvil,  then  cast  down 
her  eyes  ;  and  though  at  the  same  moment  he 
took  her  hand,  and  pressed  it  to  his  heart,  she 
trembled  to  think  that  such  a  man  might  de- 
vote himself  or  others  to  despair,  in  his  adhe- 
rence to  the  opinions,  principles,  or  duties  of 
which  he  might  make  choice. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

CORINXE  and  Nelvil  employed  two  days  in 
wandering  over  the  Seven  Hills.  The  Ro- 
mans formerly  held  a  fete  in  their  honor  :  it 
is  one  of  Rome's  original  beauties  that  it  em- 
braces these  eminences,  and  patriotism  natu- 
rally loved  to  celebrate  such  a'  peculiarity. 
Oswald  and  Corinne  having  already  viewed 
the  Capitoline  Hill,  recommenced  their  course 
at  Mount  Palatinus.  The  palace  of  the  Cae- 
sars, called  the  Golden  Palace,  once  occupied 
it  entirely.  Augustus,  Tiberius,  Caligula,  and 
Nero,  built  its  four  sides ;  a  heap  of  stones. 
overgrown  with  shrubs,  is  all  that  now  re- 
mains. Nature  has  reclaimed  her  empire 
over  the  works  of  man  ;  and  her  fair  flowers 
atone  for  the  fall  of  a^  palace.  In  the  regal 
and  republican  eras,  grandly  as  towered  their 
public  buildings,  private  houses  were  extreme- 
ly small  and  simple.  Cicero,  H,prtensius,  and 
the  Gracchi,  dwelt  on  this  eminence,  which 
hardly  sufficed,  in  the  decline  of  Rome,  for 
the  abode  of  a  single  man.  In  the  latter  ages 
the  nation  was  but  a  nameless  mass,  desig- 
nated solely  by  the  eras  of  its  masters.  The 
la;;re!  tree  of  war,  and  that  of  the  arts  culti- 
vated by  peace,  which  were  planted ;at  the 
gate  of  Augustus,  have  both  disappeared. 
Some  of  Livia's  baths  are  left.  You  are 
shown  the  places  wherein  were  set  the  pre- 
cious stones,  then  lavished  on  walls  or  ceil- 
ings, and  paintings  of  which  the  colors  are 
still  fresh ;  their  delicacy  rendering  this  yet 


more  surprising  If  it  be  true  that  Livia 
caused  the  death  of  Augustus,  it  was  in  one 
of  these  chambers  that  the  outrage  must  have 
been  conceived.  How  often  may  his  gaze 
have  been  arrested  by  these  pictures,  whose 
tasteful  garlands  still  survive  !  Th^  master 
of  the  world  betrayed  in  his  nearest  affections ! 
What  thought  his  old  age  of  life  and  its  vain 
pomps  ]  Did  he  reflect  on  his  glory,  or  its 
victims  ?  Hoped  he  or  fr  ared  he  a  future 
world  ?  Does  the  last  thought,  which  reveals 
all  to  man,  yet  wander  over  these  halls,  the 
scenes  of  his  past  power  1(11) 

Mount  Aventinus  affords  more  traces  of 
Rome's  early  day  than  any  of  its  sister  hills. 
Exactly  facing  the  palace  constructed  by  Ti- 
berius is  seen  a  wreck  of  the  Temple  to  Li- 
berty, built  by  the  father  of  the  Gracchi ;  and 
at  the  foot  of  this  ascent  stood  that  dedicated 
to  the  Fortune  of  Men,  by  Servius  Tulhus,  to 
thank  the  gods  that,  though  born  a  slave,  he 
had  become  a  king.  Without  the  walls  of 
Rome  another  edifice  rose  to  the  Fortune  of 
Women,  commemorating  the  influence  exerted 
by  Yeturia  over  Coriolanus. 

Opposite  to  Mount  Aventinus  is  Mount 
Janiculum,  on  which  Porsenna  marshalled  hia 
army.  It  was  in  front  of  this  hill  that  Hora- 
tius  Codes  cut  away  the  bridge  which  led  to 
Rome  :  its  foundations  still  exist.  On  the 
banks  of  the  stream  was  built  a  brick  arch, 
s.\mple  as  the  action  it  recalled  was  great.  In 
the  midst  of  the  Tiber  we  see  the  island 
formed  of  the  wheat  sheaves  gathered  from 
the  fields  of  Tarquin  ;  the  Romans  forbearing 
to  use  them,  in  the  belief  that  they  were 
charged  with  evil  fate.  It  would  be  difficult, 
in  our  own  day,  to  call  down  on  any  treasure  a 
curse  of  sufficient  efficacy  to  scare  men  from 
its  participation. 

On  Mount  Aventinus  were  temples  both  to 
patrician  and  plebeian  chastity  :  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  the  temple  of  Yesta  still  remains,  j 
almost  entire,  though  the  inundations  of  the  ]j 
Tiber  have  often  threatened  to  destroy  it. 
Not  far  thence  are  vestiges  of  a  prison  for 
debt,  where  the  well-known  instance  of  filial 
piety  is  said  to  have  occurred  ;  here,  too, 
Clffilia  and  her  companions  were  confined  by 
Porsenna,  and  swam  across  the  river  to  rejoin 
the  Romans.  Mount  Aventinus  indemnifies 
the  mind  for  all  the  painful  recollections  the 
other  hills  awake  ;  and  its  aspect  is  as  beau- 
teous as  its  memories  are  sweet.  The  banks 
at  its  foot  were  called  the  Lovely  Strand 
(pulchruin  Uttim).  Thither  the  orators  of 
Rome  walked  from  the  Forum  :  there  Caesar 
and  Povnpey  met  like  simple  citizens,  and 
sought  to  conciliate  Cicero,  whose  independent 
eloquence  was  of  more  weight  than  even  the 
power  of  their  armies.  Poetry  also  has  em- 


34 


CORINNE ;    OR,  ITALY. 


bellished  this  spot :  it  was  there  that  Virgil 
placed  the  cave  of  Cacus  ;  and  Rome,  so  great 
in  history,  is  still  greater  by  the  heroic  fictions 
with  which  her  fabulous  origin  has  been 
decked.  In  returning  from  Mount  Aventinus, 
you  see  the  house  of  Nicolas  Hienzi,  who 
vainly  strove  to  restore  the  spirit  of  antiquity 
in  modern  days. 

Mount  Coelius  is  remarkable  for  the  remains 
of  a  pretorian  encampment,  and  that  of  the 
foreign  troops  :  on  the  ruins  of  the  latter  we 
found  an  inscription — "  To  the  Holy  Genius 
of  the  Foreign  Camp."  Holy,  indeed,  to 
those  whose  power  it  sustained!  What  is 
left.of  these  barracks  proves  that  they  were 
built  like  cloisters  ;  or,  rather,  that  cloisters 
were  formed  after  their  model. 

Esquilinus  was  called  the  "  Poet's  Hill ;" 
Maecenas,  Horace,  Propertius,  and  Tibullus, 
having  all  houses  there.  Near  this  are  the 
ruins  of  the  baths  of  Trajan  and  Titus.  It  is 
believed  that  Raphael  copied  his  arabesques 
from  the  frescoes  of  the  latter  ;  here,  too,  was 
the  Laocoon  discovered.  The  freshness  of 
water  is  so  acceptable  in  fervid  climes,  that 
their  natives  love  to  collect  all  that  can  pam- 
per the  senses  in  the  chambers  where  they 
bathe.  Thus,  by  the  light  of  lamps,  did  the 
Romans  gaze  on  the  chefs-d'ceuvres  of  paint- 
ing and  sculpture ;  for  it  appears  from  the 
construction  of  these  buildings  that  day  never 
entered'  them ;  they  were  sheltered  from  the 
noontide  rays',  so  piercing  here  as  fully  to 
deserve  the  title  of  Apollo's  darts.  The  ex- 
treme precautions  taken  by  the  ancients  might 
induce  a.  supposition  that  the  climate  was 
more  burning  then  than  now.  In  the  baths  of 
Caracalla  were  the  Farnese  Hercules,  the 
Flora,  and  the  group  of  Circe.  Near  Ostia, 
in  the  baths  of  Nero,  was  found  the  Apollo 
Belvidere.  Can  we  look  on  that  noble  figure 
and  conceive  Nero  destitute  of  all  generous 
sentiments  1 

The  baths  and  circuses  are  the  only  places 
of  public  amusement  that  have  left  their  ves- 
tige. Though  the  ruins  of  Marcellus's  theatre 
still  exist,  Pliny  relates  that  360  marble  pillars, 
and  3000  statues,  were  placed  in  a  theatre 
incapable  of  lasting  many  days.  The  Romans 
sometimes  built  with  a  solidity  that  delied  the 
earthquake's  shock  ;  sometimes  they  wasted 
like  pains  on  edifices  which  they  destroyed 
themselves  when  the  fetes  held  in  them  were 
concluded  ;  thus,  in  every  sense,  sported  they 
with  time.  They  had  not  the  Grecian's  ma- 
nia for  dramatic  representations  ;  the  fine  arts 
then  flourished  at  Rome  only  in  the  works  of 
Greece  ;  and  Roman  grandeur  consisted  rather 
in  colossal  architecture  than  in  efforts  of  ima- 
gination. The  gigantic  wonders  thus  pro- 
duced bcre  a  very  dignified  stamp,  no  longer 

I ' 


of  liberty,  but  that  of  power  still.  The  dis- 
tricts devoted  to  the  public  baths  were  called 
provinces,  and  united  all  the  varied  establish- 
ments to  ,be  found  in  a  whole  country.  The 
great  circus  so  nearly  touched  the  imperial 
palace,  that  Nero,  from  his  window,  could 
give  a  signal  for  the  commencement  of  the 
games.  This  circus  was  large  enough  to 
contain  300,000  people.  Almost  the  whole 
nation  might  be  amused, at  the  same  moment ; 
and  these  immense  festivals  might,  be  consi- 
dered as  popular  institutions,  which  assembled 
for  mere  pleasure  those  who  formerly  united 
for  glory. 

Mounts  Quirinalis  and  Viminalis  are  so 
near  each  other  that  it  is  not  easy  to  distin- 
guish them  apart.  There  stood  the  houses 
of  Sallust  and  of  Pompey.  There,  too,  in  the 
present  day,  does  the  pope  reside.  One  can- 
not lake  a  single  step  in  Rome  without  con- 
trasting its  present  and  its  past.  But  one 
learns  to  view  the  events  of  one's  own  time 
the  more  calmly  for  noting  the  eternal  fluctu- 
ations that  mark  the  history  of  man  ;  and  one 
feels  ashamed  to  repine,  in  the  presence,  as  it 
were^  of  so  many  centuries,  who  have  all 
overthrown  the  achievements  of  their  prede- 
cessors. 

Around  and  on  the  Sever.  Hills  are  seen  a 
multitude  of  spires  and  obelisks,  the  columns 
of  Trajan  and  of  Antoninus,  the  tower  of 
Conti,  whence,  it  is  said,  Nero  overlooked  the 
conflagration  of  Rome,  and  the  dome  of  St. 
Peter's  lording  it  over  the  highest.  The  air 
seems  peopled  by  these  heaven-aspiring  fanes, 
as  if  an  aerial  city  soared  majestic  above  that 
of  the  earth.  In  re-entering  Rome,  Corinne 
led  Oswald  beneath  the  portico  of  the  tender 
and  suffering  Octavia  ;  they  then  crossed  the 
road  along  which  the  infamous  Tullia  drove 
over  the  body  of  her  father  ;  they  beheld,  in 
the'distance,  the  temple  raised  by  Agrippina 
in  honor  of  Claudius,  whom  she  had  caused 
to  be  poisoned  ;  finally,  they  passed  the  tomb 
of  Augustus,  the  enclosure  around  which  now 
serves  as  an  arena  for  animal  combats. 

"  1  have  led  you  rapidly,"  said  Corinne, 
"  over  a  few^  foot-prints  of  ancient  history  ; 
but  you  can  appreciate  the  pleasure  which 
may  be  found  in  researches  at  once  learned 
and  poetic,  addressing  the  fancy  as  well  as 
the  reason.  There  are  many  distinguished  ij 
men  in  Rome  whose  sole  occupation  is  that  of 
discovering  new  links  between  our  ruins  and 
our  history."  "  I  know  no  study  which  could 
interest  me  more,"  replied  Nelvil,  "  if  1  felt 
my  mind  sufficiently  composed  for  it.  Such 
erudition  is  far  more  animated  than  that  we 
acquire  from  books  ;  we  seem  to  revive  what 
we  unveil ;  and  the  past  appears  to  rise  from 
the  dust  which  concealed  it."  "  Truly,"  said 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


35 


Corinne,  "  this  passion  for  antiquity  is  no  idle 
prejudice.      We  live  in  an  age   when   self- 
interest  seems  the  ruling  principle  of  all  men  : 
what  sympathy,  what  enthusiasm,  can  ever 
be  its  result  1     Is  it  not  sweeter  to  dream  over 
|  the  days  of  self-devotion  and  heroi,c  sacrifice, 
|  which  once  existed,  nay,  of  which  the  earth 
still  bears  such  honorable  traces  ?" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

CORINNE  secretly  flattered  herself  that  she 
had  captivated  the  heart  of  Oswald;  yet, 
knowing  his  severe  reserve,  dared  not  fully 
betray  the  interest  he  inspired,  prompt  as  she 
was  by  nature  to  confess  her  feelings.  Per- 
haps she  even  thought  that  while  speaking  on 
subjects  foreign  to  their  love,  the  very  voice 
might  disclose  their  mutual  affection  ;  a  silent 
avowal  be  expressed  in  their  looks,  or  in  that 
veiled  and  melancholy  language  which  so 
deeply  penetrates  the  soul. 

One  morning,  while  she  was  preparing  to 
continue  their  researches,  she  received  from 
him  an  almost  ceremonious  note,  stating  that 
indisposition  would 'confine  him  to  his  house 
for  some  days.  A  sad  disquietude  seized  the 
heart  of  Corinne  :  at  first  she  feared  that  he 
was  dangerously  ill ;  but  Count  d'Erfeuil, 
who  called  in  the  evening,  informed  her  that 
it  was  but  one  of  those  attacks  of  melancholy 
to  which  Nelvil  was  so  subject,  and  during 
which  he  would  converse  with  nobody. 
"  He  won't  even  see  me .'"  added  the 
Count.  The  words  displeased  Corinne  ;  but 
she  took  care  to  hide  her  anger  from  its  ob- 
ject, as  he  alone  could  bring  her  tidings  of  his 
friend.  She,  therefore,  continued  to  question 
him,  trusting  that  a  person  so  giddy,  at  least 
in  appearance,  would  tell  her  all  he  knew. 
But  whether  he  wished  to  hide,  beneath  an  air 
of  mystery,  the  fact  that  Nelvil  had  confided 
nothing,  or  whether  he  believed  it  more  ho- 
norable to  th%vart  her  wishes  than  to  grant 
them,  he  met  her  ardent  curiosity  by  imper- 
turbable silence.  She,  who  had  always  gained 
such  an  ascendency  over  those  with  whom 
she  spoke,  could  not  understand  why  her  per- 
suasive powers  should  fail  with  him.  She  did 
not  know  that  self-love  is  the  most  inflexible 
quality  in  the  world.  Where  was  then  her 
resource  for  learning  what  passed  in  the  heart 
of  Oswald  *  Should  she  write  to  him  t  A 
letter  requires  such  caution  ;  and  the  loveliest 
attribute  of  her  nature  was  its  impulsive  sin- 


cerity. Three  days  passed,  and  still  he  came 
not.  She  suffered  the  most  cruel  agitation. 
"  What  have  I  done,"  she  thought,  "  to  dis- 
sever him  from  me  ?  I  have  not  committed 
the  error  so  formidable  in  England,  so  par- 
donable in  Italy  ;  I  never  told  him  that  I  loved. 
Even  if  he  guesses  it,  why  should  he  esteem 
me  the  less?"  Oswald  avoided  Corinne 
merely  because  he  but  too  strongly  felt  the 
power  of  her  charms.  Although  he  had  not 
given  his  word  to  marry  Lucy  Edgarmond, 
he  knew  that  such  had  been  his  fathers  wish, 
and  desired  to  conform  with  it.  Corinne  was 
not  known  by  her  real  name  :  she  had  for 
many  years  led  a  life  far  too  independent  for 
him  to  hope  that  an  union  with  her  would 
have  obtained  the  approbation  of  his  parent, 
and  he  felt  that  it  was  not  by  such  a  step  he 
could  expiate  his  early  offences.  He  pur- 
posed to  leave  Rome,  and  write  Corinne  an 
explanation  of  the  motives  which  enforced 
such  resolution  ;  but  not  feeling  strength  for 
t'\is,  he  limited  his  exertions  to  a  forbearance 
from  visiting  her;  and  this  sacrifice  soon  ap- 
peared the  most  painful  of  the  two. 

Corinne  was  struck  by  the  idea  that  she 
should  see  him  no  more,  that  he  would  fly 
without  bidding  her  adieu.  She  expected 
every  instant  to  hear  of  his  departure ;  and 
terror  so  aggravated  her  sensations,  that  the 
vulture  talons  of  passion  seized  at  once  upon 
her  heart ;  and  its  peace,  its  liberty  crouched 
beneath  them.  Unable  to  rest  in  the  house 
where  Oswald  came  not,  she  wandered  in  the 
gardens  of  Rome,  hoping  to  meet  him ;  she 
had  at  least  some  chance  of  seeing  him,  and 
best  supported  the  hours  during  which  she 
trusted  to  this  chance. 

Her  ardent  fancy,  the'  source  of  her  talents,  | 
was  unhappily  blended  with  such  natural  feel- 
ing, that  it  constituted  her  wretchedness.  On 
the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  of  this  cruel 
absence,  the  moon  shone  clearly  over  Rome, 
which  in  the  silence  of  night  looks  lovely,  as 
if  it  were  inhabited  but  by  the  spirits  of  the 
great.  Corinne,  on  her  way  from  the  house 
of  a  female  friend,  left  her  carriage,  and  op- 
pressed with  grief,  seated  herself  beside  the 
fountain  of  Trevi,  that  abundant  cascade  which 
falls  in  the  centre  of  Rome,  and  seems  the  life 
of  that  tranquil  scene.  Whenever  its  flow  is 
suspended,  all  appears  stagnation.  In  other 
cities  it  is  the  roll  of  carriages  that  the  ear 
requires  ;  in  Rome,  it  is  the  murmur  of  this 
immense  fountain,  which  seems  the  indispen- 
sable accompaniment  of  the  dreamy  life  led 
there.  The  form  of  Corinne  was  now  re- 
flected on  the  surface  of  this  water,  which  is 
so  pure,  that  it  has  for  many  ages  been  named 
the  Virgin  Spring.  Oswald,  who  had  paused 
there  at  the  same  moment,  beheld  the  en- 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


chanting  countenance  of  her  he  loved  thus 
mirrored  in  the  wave  :  at  first  it  affected  him 
so  strangely  that  he  believed  himself  crazing 
on  her  phantom,  as  his  imagination  had  often 
conjured  up  that  of  his  father  ;  lie  leaner!  for- 
ward, in  order  to  see  it  more  plainly,  and  his 
own  features  appeared  beside  those  of  Corinne. 
She  recognized  them,  shrieked,  rushed  to- 
wards him,  and  seized  his  arm,  as  if  she  fear- 
ed '  he  would  again  escape  ;  but  scarcely  had 
she  yielded-  to  this  too  impetuous  impulse,  ere, 
remembering  the  character  of  Lord  Nelvil, 
she  blushed,  her  hand  dropped,  and  with 
the  other  she  covered  her  face  to  hide  her 
tears. 

"  Corinne  !  dear  Corinne !"  he  cried,  "  has 
then  my  absence  pained  you  ?''  "Yes,"  she 
replied,  "you  must  have  known  it  would. 
Why  then  inflict  such  pangs  on  me  ?  Have 
1  deserved  to  suffer  thus  for  you  1"  "  No, 
no,"  iie  answered  ;  "  but  I  cannot  deem,  myself 
free — if  my  heart  be  filled  by  regret  and  fear, 


why  should  I  involve  you  in  its  tortures  * 
Why  1"  "  It  is  too  late  to  ask,"  interrupted 
Corinne  ;  "  grief  is  already  in  my  breast  ; 
'  bear  with  me  !"  "  Grief!"  repeated  Oswald ; 
"  in  the  midst  of  so  brilliant  a  career,  with  so 
hrely  a  genius  !''  "  Hold,"  she  said  ;  "  you 
know  me  not.  Of  all  my  faculties,  the  most 
powerful  is  that  of  suffering.  I  was  formed 
for  happiness ;  my  nature  is  confiding  and 
animated  ;  but  sorrow  excites  me  to  a  degree 
that  threatens  my  reason,  nay,  my  life.  Be 
careful  of  me  !  My  gay  versatility  serves  me 
hut  in  appearance  :  within  mv  soul  is  an  abyss 
of  despair,  which  I  can  only  avoid  by  pre- 
serving myself  from  love."  Corinne  spoke 
with  an  expression  which  vividly  affected 
Oswald.  "  I  will  come  to  you  to-morrow, 
rely  on  it,  Corinne,"  he  said.  "  Swear  it !" 
she  exclaimed,  with  an  eagerness  which  she 
strove  in  vain  to  disguise,  "  I  do,"  he  an- 
swered, and  departed. 


BOOK     V  . 

TH«       TOMBS,       CHURCHES,      AND       PALACES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  next  day  Oswald  and  "Corinne  met  in 
great  embarrassment  She  could  no  longer 
depend  on  the  love  she  had  inspired.  He 
was  dissatisfied  with  himself,  and  was  con- 
scious of  a  weakness  of  character  which  made 
him  rebel  against  kis  own  sentiments  as 
against  a  tyranny  which  enslaved  him.  Both 
sought  to  avoid"  the  subject  of  their  mutual 
affection.  "To-day,"  said  Corinne,  "  I  pro- 
pose a  somewhat  solemn  excursion,  but  one 
which  will  be  sure  to  interest  you  :  let  us  visit 
the  hst  asylums  of  those  who  lived  amor? 
the  edifices  we  have  seen  in  ruins."  "  You 
have  divined  what  would  most  suit  my  present 
disposition,"  said  Oswald,  in  so  sad  a  tone, 
that  she  dared  not  speak  again  for  some  mo- 
ments ;  then  gaining  courage  from  her  desire 
to  soothe  and  entertain  him,  she  added,  "  You 
know,  my  lord,  that  among  the  ancients,  far 
from  the  sight  of  tombs  discouraging  the  liv- 
ing, they  were  placed  in  the  high  road,  to 
kindle  emulation  :  the  young  were  thus  con- 
stantly reminded  of  the  illustrious  dead,  who 
seemed  silently  to  bid  them  imitate  their  glo- 


ries." "Ah!"  sighed  Oswald,  "how  I  envy 
those  whose  regrets  are  unstained  by  re- 
morse." "  Talk  you  of  remorse  ?''  she  cried  ; 
"  then  it  is  but  one  virtue  the  more,  the  scru- 
ples of  a  heart  whose  exalted  delicacy — " 
He  interrupted  her.  "  Corinne  !  Corinne  ! 
|  do  not  approach  that  theme  :  in  your  blest 
j  land,  gloomy  thoughts  are  exhale'd  by  the 
brightness  of  heaven  ;  but  with  us  grief  buries 
itself  in  the  depths  of  the  soul,  and  shatters  its 
strength  for  ever."  "  You  do  rne  injustice," 
she  replied.  "  I  have  told  you  that,  capable 
j  as  I  am  of  enjoyment,  I  should  suffer  more 
!  than  you,  if — "  she  paused  and  changed  the 
subject ;  continuing,  '•  My  only  wish,  ray  lord, 
is  to  divert  your  mind  for  a  while.  I  ask  no 
more.'"  The  meekness  of  this  reply  touched 
Oswald's  heart ;  and,  as  he  marked  the  me- 
lancholy beauty  of  those  eyes  usually  so  full 
of  fire,  he  reproached  himself  with  having 
thus  depressed  a  spirit  so  framed  for  sweet 
and  joyous  impressions :  he  would  fain  have 
restored  them  ;  but  Corinne's  uncertainty  of 
his  intentions,  as  to  his  stay  or  departure,  en- 
tirely disordered  her  accustomed  serenity. 
She  led  him  through  the  gates  to  the  old 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


37 


Appian  Way,  whose  traces  are  marked  in  the 
heart  of  the  country  by  ruins  on  the  right  and 
I  left,  for  many  miles  beyond  the  walls.  The 
!  Romans  did  not  permit  the  dead  to  be  buried 
i  within  the  city.  None  but  the  emperors  were 
,  there  interred,  except  one  citizen  named  Pub- 
s' lius  Biblius,  who  was  thus  recompensed  for  his 
i  humble  virtues ;  such  as,  indeed,  his  cotem- 
!  poraries  were  most  inclined  to  honor. 

To  reach  the  Appian  Way  you  leave  Rome 
:  by  the  gate  of  St.  Sebastian,  formerly  called 
'  the  Capena  Gate.  The  first  tombs  you  then 
1  find,  Cicero  assures  us,  are  those  of  Metellus, 

•  of  Scipio,  and  Servilius.     The  tornb  of  the 
I:  Scipio  family  was  found  here',  and  afterwards 

•  removed  to  the  Vatican.     It  is  almost  sacri- 
i  lege  to  displace  such  ashes.     Imagination  is 
|  more  nearly  allied  to  mortality  than  is  believed, 
|  and   ought   not  to  be  •  offended.      Among-  so 
I  many  tombs  names  must  be  strewn  at  random  : 
!  there  is  no  way  of  deciding  to  which  such  or 
I  such  title  belongs  ;  but  this  very  uncertainty 
i  prevents  our  looking  on  any  of  them  with  in- 
|  difference.     It  was  in  SUCTC  that  the  peasants 
i  made  their  homes ;  for  the  Romans  consecrated 
I  quite  space  enough  to  the  urns  of  their  illus- 
!  trious   fellow-citizens.      They   had   not  that 
'  principle  of  utility  which,  for  the  sake  of  cul- 
I  rivaling  a  few  feet  of  ground  the  more,  lays 
|  waste  the  vast  domain  of  feeling  and  of  thought. 

i  At  some  distance  from  the  Appian  Way  is  a 
';  temple  raised  by  the  republic  to  Hoaor  and 
! !  to  Virtue  ;  another  to  the  god  who  caused  the 
ji  return  of  Hannibal.     There,  too,  is  the  foun- 
I  j  tain  of  Egeria  ;  where  in  solitude  Numa  con- 
j  versed  with  Conscience,  the  divinity  of  the 
j  good.     Xo  monument  of  guilt  invades  the  re- 
I  pose  of  these  great  beings  :  the  earth  around 
I  is  sacred  to  the  memory  of  worth.     The  no- 
j  blest  thoughts  may  reign  there  undisturbed. 
The  aspect  of  the  "country  near  Rome  is  re- 
markably peculiar  ;  it  is  but  a  desert,  as  boast- 
ing neither  trees  nor  houses  ;  but  the  ground 
is  covered  with  wild  shrubs  ceaselessly  re- 
newed by  energetic  vegetation.     The  parasi- 
tic tribes  creep  round  the  tombs,  and  decorate 
the  ruins,  as  if  in  honor  of  their  dead.    Proud 
I  nature,  conscious  that   no   Cincinnatus   now 
j  guides  the  plough  that  furrows  her  breast,  there 
i  repulses  the  care  of  man,  and  produces  plants 
which  she  permits  not  to  serve  the   living. 
These  uncultivated  plains  may,  indeed,  dis- 
please those  who  speculate  on  the  earth's  ca- 
pacity for  supplying  human  wants ;  but  the 
pensive  mind,  more  occupied  by  thoughts  of 
death  than  of  life,  loves  to  contemplate  the 
Campagna,  on  which  present  time  has  imprint- 
ed no  trace  :  it  cherishes  the  dead,  and  fondly 
covers  them  with  useless  flowers,  that  bask 
beneath  the  sun,  but  never  aspire  above  the 
ashes  which  they  appear  to  caress.     Oswald 


i  admitted  that  in  such  a  scene  a  calm  might  be 
regained  that  could  be  enjoyed  nowhere  be- 
side. The  soul  is  there  less  wounded  by  ima- 
ges of  sorrow  :  it  seems  to  partake  with  those 
now  no  more,  the  charm  of  that  air,  that  sun- 
light, and  that  verdure.  Corinne  drew  some 
hope  from  observing  the  effect  thus  taken  on 
him  ;  she  wished  not  to  efface  the  just  regret 
he  owed  to  the  loss  of  his  father ;  but  regret 
itself  is  capable  of  sweets^  with  which  we 
should  try  to  familiarize  those  who  have  tasted 
but  its  bitterness,  for  that  is  the  only  blessing 
we  can  confer  on  them. 

"  Let  us  rest,"  said  Corinne,  "  before  this 
tomb,  which  remains  almost  entire ;  it  is  not 
that  of  a  celebrated  man,  but  of  a  young  girl, 
Cecilia  Meteila,  to  whom  her  father  raised  it." 
"  Happy  the  children,"  sighed  Oswald,  ''who 
die  on  the  bosom  that  gave  them  life  ;  for  them 
even  death  must  lose  its  sting."  "  Ay,"  re- 
plied Corinne,  with  emotion,  "  happv  those 
who  are  not  orphans.  But  look !  arms  are 
sculptured  here  ;  the  daughters  of  heroes  had 
a  rijrht  to  bear  the  trophies  of  their  sires  :  fair 
union  of  innocence  and  valor !  There  is  an 
elegy,  by  Propertius,  which,  better  than  any 
other  writing  of  antiquity,  describes  the  dig- 
nity of  woman  among  the  Romans ;  a  dig- 
nity more  pure  and  more  commanding  than 
even  that  which  she  enjoyed  during  the  age  of 
chivalry.  Cornelia,  dying  in-  her  youth,  ad- 
dresses to  her  husband  a  consolatory  farewell, 
whose  every  word  breathes  her  tender  respect 
for  all  that  is  sacred  in  the  ties  of  nature. 
The  noble  pride  of  a  blameless  life  is  well  de-  j 
picted  in  the  majestic  Latin,  in  poetry  august  J 
and  severe  as  the  masters  of  the  world.  '  Yes,' 
says  Cornelia,  '  no  stain  has  sullied  rny  career, 
from  the  hour  when  Hymen's  torch  was  kin- 
dled, even  to  that  which  lights  my  funeral 
pyre.  I  have  lived  spotless  between  the  two 
flames.'  (12)  What  an  admirable  expression! 
what  a  sublime  image !  How  enviable  the 
woman  who  preserves  this  perfect  unity  in  her 
fate,  and  carries  but  one  remembrance  to  the 
grave  !  That  were  enough  for  one  life."  As 
she' ceased,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  A  cruel 
suspicion  seized  the  heart  of  Oswald.  "  Co- 
rinne," he  cried,  "  has  your  delicate  mind 
aught  with  which  to  reproach  you  ?  If  I  could 
offer  you  myself,  should  I  not  have  rivals  in 
the  past  !  Could  I  pride  in  my  choice  ?  Might 
not  jealousy  disturb  my  delight  ?"  "  I  am 
free,"  replied  Cerinne,  "and  love  you  as  I 
never  loved  before.  What  would  you  have? 
Must  I  confess,  that,  ere  I  knew  you,  I  might 
have  deceived  myself  as  to  the  interest  with 
which  others  inspired  me  1  Is  there  no  di- 
vine pity  in  man's  heart  for  the  errors  which, 
beneath  such  illusion,  might  have  been  com- 
mitted V'  A  modest  glow  overspread  her  faco. 


38 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


Oswald  shuddered,  but  was  silent.  There 
was  such  timid  penitence  in  the  looks  of  Co- 
rinne,  that  he  could  not  rigorously  judge  one 
whom  a  ray  from  heaven  seemed  descending 
to  absolve.  He  pressed  her  hand  to  his  heart, 
and  knelt  before  her,  without  uttering  a  pro- 
mise, indeed,  but  with  a  glance  of  love  which 
left  her  all  to  hope. 

"  Let  us  form  no  plan  for  years  to  come," 
said  Corinne  ;  "  the  happiest  hours  of  life  are 
those  benevolently  granted  us  by  chance  :  it  is 
not  here,  in  the  midst  of  tombs,  that  we  should 
trust  much  to  the  future."  "  No,"  cried  Nel- 
vil ;  "  I  believe  in  no  future  that  can  part  us  ; 
four  days  of  absence  have  but  too  well  con- 
vinced me  that  I  now  exist  but  for  you."  Co- 
rinne made  no  reply,  but  religiously  hoarded 
these  precious  words  in  her  heart ;  she  always 
feared,  in  prolonging  a  conversation  on  the  only 
subject  of  her  thoughts,  lest  Oswald  should  de- 
clare his  intentions  before  a  longer  habit  of 
being  with  her  rendered  separation  impossi- 
ble. She  often  designedly  directed  his  atten- 
tion to  exterior  objects,  like  the  sultana  in  the 
Arabian  tales,  who  sought  by  a  thousand  va- 
ried stories  to  captivate  her  beloved,  and  defer 
his  decision  of  her  fate,  till  certain  that  her 
charms  must  prove  victorious. 


CHAPTER  II. 

NOT  far  from  the  Appian  Way  is  seen  the 
Columbarium,  where  slaves  are  buried  with 
their  lords  ;  where  the  same  tomb  contains  all 
who  dwelt  beneath  the  protection  of  the  same 
master  or  mistress.  The  women  devoted  to 
the  care  of  Livia's  beauty,  who  contended 
with  time  for  the  preservation  of  her  charms, 
are  placed  in  small  urns  beside  her.  The  no- 
ble and  ignoble  there  repose  in  equal  silence. 
At  a  little  distance  is  the  field  wherein  ves- 
tals, unfaithful  to  their  vows,  were  interred 
alive  ;  a  single  example  of  fanaticism  in  a  re- 
ligion naturally  so  tolerant. 

"  I  shall  not  take  you  to  the  catacombs," 
said  Corinne,  "  though,  by  a  strange  chance, 
they  lie  beneath  the  Appian  Way,  tombs  upon 
tombs  !  But  that  asylum  of  persecuted  Chris- 
tians is  so  gloomy  and  terrible,  that  I  cannot 
resolve  to  revisit  it.  It  has  not  the  touching 
melancholy  which  one  breathes  in  open  wilds": 
it  is  a  dungeon  near  a  sepulchre — the  tortures 
of  existence  beside  the  horrors  of  death. 
Doubtless  one  must  admire  men  who,  by  the 
mere  force  of  enthusiasm,  could  support  that 


subterranean  hie — for  ever  banished  from  the 
sun  ;  but  the  soul  is  too  ill  at  ease  in  such  a 
scene  to  be  benefited  by  it.  Man  is  a  part  of 
creation,  and  finds  his  own  moral  luirmony  in 
that  of  the  universe  :  in  the  habitual  order  of 
fate,  violent  exceptions  may  astonish,  but  they 
create  too  much  terror  to  be  of  service.  Let 
us  rather  seek  the  pyramid  of  Cestius,  around 
which  all  Protestants  who  die  here  find  chari- 
table graves."  "  Yes,"  returned  Oswald, 
"  many  a  countryman  of  mine  is  amongst  them. 
Let  us  go  there  :  in  one  sense  at  least,  per- 
haps, I  shall  never  leave  you."  Corinne's 
hand  trembled  on  his  arm.  He  continued, 
"  Yet  I  am  much  better  since  I  have  known 
you."  Her  countenance  resumed  its  wonted 
air  of  tender  joy. 

Cestius  presided  over  the  Roman  sports. 
His  name  is  not  found  in  history,  but  rendered 
famous  by  his  tornb.  The  massive  pyramid 
that  enclosed  him  preserves  his  death  from  the 
oblivion  which  has  utterly  effaced  his  life.  Au- 
relian,  fearing  that^his  pyramid  would  be  used 
but  as  a  fortress  from  whence  to  attack  the 
city,  had  it  surrounded  by  walls  which  still 
exist,  not  as  useless  ruins,  but  as  the  actual 
boundaries  of  modern  Rome.  It  is  said  that 
pyramids  were  formed  in  imitation  of  the 
flames  that  rose  from  funeral  pyres.  Cer- 
tainly their  mysterious  shape  attracts  the  eye, 
and  gives  a  picturesque  character  to  all  the 
views  of  which  they  constitute  a  part. 

In  front  of  this  pyramid  is  Mount  Testacio, 
beneath  which  are  several  cool  grottoes,  where 
fetes  are  held  in  the  summer.  If,  at  a  dis- 
tance, the  revellers  see  pines  and  cypresses 
shading  their  smiling  land,  and  recalling  a 
solemn  consciousness  of  death,  this  contrast 
produces  the  same  effect  with  the  lines  which 
Horace  has  written  in  the  midst  of  verses 
teeming  with  earthly  enjoyment :— 7 

"  Moriture  Belli, 


Linquenda  tellus,  et  domus,  et  placena 
Uxor." 

'  Dellius,  remember  thou  must  die — leaving  the 
world,  thy  home,  and  gentle  wife.'  The  an- 
cients acknowledged  this  in  their  very  volup- 
tuousness :  even  love  and  festivity  reminded 
them  of  it,  and  joy  seemed  heightened  by  a 
sense  of  its  brevity. 

Oswald  and  Corinne  returned  by  the  side  of 
the  Tiber ;  formerly  covered  with  vessels, 
and  banked  by  palaces.  Of  yore,  even  its 
inundations  were  regarded  as  omens.  It  was 
then  the  prophetic,  the  tutelar  divinity  of 
Rome.  (13)  It  may  now  be  said  to  flow 
among  phantoms,  so  livid  is  its  hue — so  deep 
its  loneliness.  The  finest  statues  and  olher 
works  of  art  were  thrown  into  the  Tiber,  and 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


39 


are  hidden  beneath  its  tides.  Who  knows  but 
that  in  search  of  them,  the  river  ,may  at  last 
be  driven  from  its  bed  ?  But,  while  we  muse 
on  efforts  of  human  genius  that  lie,  perhaps, 
beneath  us,  and  that  some  eye,  more  piercing 
than  our  own,  may  vet  see  through  these  waves, 
we  feel  that  awe  which,  in  Rome,  is  constant- 
ly reviving  in  various  forms,  and  giving  the 
mind  companions  in  those  physical  objects 
which  are  elsewhere  dumb.  • 


CHAPTER  III. 

RAPHAEL  said  that  modern  Rome  was  al- 
most entirely  built  from  the  ruins  of  the  an- 
cient city  ;  Pliny  had  talked  of  the  "  eternal 
rt-alls,"  which  are  still  seen  amid  the  works 
of  latter  times.  Nearly  all  the  buildings  bear 
the  stamp  of  history,  teaching  you  to  compare 
the  physiognomies  of  different  ages.  From 
the  days  of  Etruscans  (a  people  senior  to  the 
Romans  themselves,  resembling  the  Egyptians 
in  the  solidity  and  eccentricity  of  their  designs) 
down  to  th«>time  of  Bernini,  an  artist  as  guilty 
of  mannerism  as  were  the  Italian  poets  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  one  may  trace  the  pro- 
gress of  the  human  rnind,  in  the  characters  of 
the  arts,  the  buildings,  and  ruins.  The  middle 
ages  and  the  brilliant  day  of  the  de  Medici, 
re-appearing  in  their  works,  it  is  but  to  study 
the  past  in  the  present — to  penetrate  the  se- 
crets of  all  time.  It  is  believed  that  Rome 
had  formerly  a  mystic  name,  known  but  to 
few.  The  city  has  still  spells,  into  which  we 
require  initiation.  It  is  not  simply  an  assem- 
blage of  dwellings ;  it  is  a  chronicle  of  the 
worM,  represented  by  figurative  emblems. 
Corinne  agreed  with  Nelvil, '  that  they  would 
now  explore  modern  Rome,  reserving  for  an- 
other opportunity  its  admirable  collection  of 
pictures  and  of  statues.  Perhaps,  without 
confessing  it  to  herself,  she  wished  to  defer 
these  sights  as  long, as  possible  :  for  who  has 
ever  left  Rome  without  looking  on  the  Apollo 
Belvidere  and  the  paintings  of  Raphael  ?  This 
security,  weak  as  it  was,  that  Oswald  would 
not  yet  depart,  was  everything  to  her.  Where 
is  the  pride,  some  may  ask,  who  would  retain 
those  they  love  by  an)'  other  motive  than  that 
of  affection  1  I  know  not,  but  the  more  we 
love,  the  less  we  rely  on  our  own  power  ;  and, 
whatever  be  the  cause  which  secures  us  the 
presence  of  the  object  dear  to  us,  it  is  accepted 
with  gratitude.  There  is  often  much  vanity 
in  a  certain  species  of  pride ;  and  if  women, 


as  generally  admired  as  Corinne,  have  one  real 
advantage,  it  is  the  right  to  exult  rather  in 
what  they  feel  than  in  what  they  inspire. 

Corinne  and  Nelvil  recommenced  their  ex- 
cursions, by  visiting  the  most  remarkable 
among  the  numerous  churches  of  Rome. 
They  are  all  adorned  with  magnificent  anti- 
quities ;  but  these  festal  ornaments,  torn  from 
Pagan  temples,  have  here  a  strange,  sombre 
effect.  Granite  and  porphyry  pillars  were  so 
plentiful,  that  they  are  lavished  as  if  almost 
valueless.  At  St.  John  Lateran,  famed  for 
the  councils  that  have  been  held  in  it,  so  great 
is  the  quantity  of  marble  columns,  that  many 
of  them  are  covered  with  cement,  to  form 
pilasters ;  thus  indifferent  has  this  profusion 
of  riches  rendered  its  possessors.  Some  of 
these  pillars  belonged  to  the  tomb  of  Adrian, 
others  to  the  Capitol ;  some  still  bear  on  their 
capital^  the  forms  of  the  geese  which  pre- 
served the  Romans ;  others  have  Gothic  and 
even  Arabesque  embellishments.  The  urn  of 
Agrippa  contains  the  ashes  of  a  pope.  The 
dead  of  one  generation  give  place  to  the  dead 
of  another,  and  .tombs  here  as  often  change 
their  occupants  as  the  abodes  of  the  living. 
Near  St.  John  Lateran  are  the  holy  stairs, 
brought,  it  is  said,  from  Jerusalem,  and  which 
no  one  ascends  but  on  his  knees  ;  as  Claudius, 
and  even  Caesar,  mounted  those  which  led  to 
the  temple  of  Jupiter  Capitolinus.  Beside 
St.  John's  is  the  font  where  Constantine  is 
supposed  to  have  been  baptized.  In  the  cen- 
tre of  this  ground  is  an  obelisk,  perhaps  the 
most  ancient  work  of  art  in  the  world — co- 
temporary  with  the  Trojan  war  ;  so  respected, 
even  by  the  barbarous  Cambyses,  that  he  put 
a  stop  to  the  conflagration  of  a  city  in  its 
honor ;  and,  for  its  sake,  a  king  pledged  the 
life  of  his  only  son.  The  Romans  brought  it 
from  the  heart  of  Egypt  by  miracle.  They 
turned  the  Nile  from  its  course,  that  it  might 
be  found  and  carried  to  the  sea.  This  obelisk 
is  still  covered  with  hieroglyphics,  which  have 
kept  their  secret  for  centuries,  and  defy  the 
sages  of  to-day  to  decypher  them.  These 
signs  might  reveal  the  annals  of  India  and  of 
Egypt — the  antiquities  of  antiquity  !  The 
wondrous  charm  of  Rome  consists  not  only  in 
the  real  beauty  of  her  monuments,  but  in  the 
interest  they  excite  ;  the  materials  for  think- 
ing they  suggest ;  a  charm  which  grows  every- 
day the  stronger  from  each  new  study. 

One  of  the  most  singular  churches  in  Rome 
is  St.  Paul's  •:  its  exterior  is  that  of  an  ill-built 
barn ;  yet  it  is  bedecked  within  by  eighty 
pillars  of  such  exquisite  material  and  propor- 
tion, that  they  are  believed  to  have  been 
transported  from  an  Athenian  temple,  described 
by  Pausanias.  If  Cicero  said,  in  his  day, 
"  we  are  surrounded  by  vestiges  of  history," 


40 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY- 


what  would  he  say  now  1  Columns,  statues, 
and  pictures  are  so  prodigally  crowded  in  the 
churches  of  modern  Rome,  that,  in  St.  Agnes', 
bas-reliefs,  turned  face  downwards,  s.erve  to 
pave  a  staircase,  no  one  troubling  himself  to 
ascertain  what  they  might  represent.  How- 
astonishing  a  spectacle  were  ancient  Rome, 
had  its  treasures  been  left  where  they  were 
found  !  The  immortal  cily,  nearly  as  if,  was 
of  yore,  were  still  before  us  ;  but  could  the 
men  of  our  days  dare  to  enter  it  1  The  pala- 
ces of  the  Roman  lords  are  vast  in  the  ex- 
treme, and  often  display  much  architectural 
grace  ;  but  their  interiors  are  rarely  arranged 
in  good  taste.  They  have  none  of  those  ele- 
gant apartments  invented  elsewhere  for  the 
perfect  enjoyment  of  social  life.  Superb 
galleries,  hung  with  the  chefs-foeuvres  of  the 
tenth  Leo's  age,  are  abandoned  to  the  gaze  of 
strangers,  by  their  lazy  proprietors,  who  retire 
to  their  own  obscure  little  chambers,  dead  to 
the  pomp  of  their  ancestors,  as  were  they  to 
the  austere  virtues  of  the  Roman  republic. 
The  country-houses  give  one  a  still  greater 
idea  of  solitude,  and  of  their  owners'  indiffe- 
rence amid  the  loveliest  scenes  of  nature. 
One  walks  through  immense  gardens,  doubt- 
ing if  they  have  a  master  ;  the  grass  grows  in 
every  path,  yet  in  these  very  alleys  are  the 
trees  cut  into  shapes,  after  the  fantastic  mode 
that  once  reigned  in  France.  Strange  in- 
consistency !  this  neglect  in  essentials,  and 
affectation  in  what  is  useless!  Most  Italian 
towns,  indeed,  surprise  us  with  this  mania,  in 
a  people  who  have  constantly  before  their 
eyes  such  models  of  noble  simplicity.  They 
prefer  glitter  to  convenience  ;  and  in  every 
way  betray  the  advantages  and  disadvantages 
of  not  habitually  mixing  with  society.  Their 
luxury  is  rather  that  of  fancy  than  of  comfort. 
Isolated  among  themselves,  they  dread  not 
that  spirit  of  ridicule,  which,  in  truth,  seldom 
penetrates  the  interior  of  Roman  abodes. 
Contrasting  this  with  what  they  appear  from 
without,  one  might  say  that  they  were  rather 
built  to  dazzle  the  passer-by  than  for  the 
reception  of  friends. 

After  having  shown  Oswald  the  churches 
and  the  palaces,  Corinne  led  him  to  the  Villa 
Mellini,  whose  lonely  garden  is  ornamented 
solely  by  majestic  trees.  From  thence  is 
seen  afar  the  chain  of  the  Apennines,  tinted 
by  the  transparent  air  against  which  their 
outlines  are  defined  most  picturesquely.  Os- 
wald and  Corinne  remained  for  some  time,  to 
taste  the  charms  of  heaven  and  the  tranquillity 
of  nature.  No  one  who  has  not  dwelt  in 
southern  climes  can  form  an  idea  of  this  stir- 
less  silence,  unbroken  by  the  lightest  zephyr. 
The  tenderest  blades  of  herbage  remained 
perfectly  motionless ;  even  the  animals  par- 


take this  noontide  lassitude.  You  hear  no  j 
hum  of  insects,  no  chirp  of  grasshoppers,  no 
song  of  birds  ;  none  are  agitated,  all  sleep,  till 
storm  or  passion  waken  that  vehement  nature 
which  impetuously  rushes  from  its  profound 
repose.  The  Roman  garden  possesses  a  great 
number  of  evergreens,  that,  during  winter, 
add  to  the  illusion  which  the  mild  air  creates. 
The  tufted  tops  of  pines,  so  close  to  each 
olher  that  they  form  a  kind  of  plain  in  the  air, 
have  a  charming  effect  from  any  eminence  ; 
trees  of  inferior  stature  are  sheltered  by  this 
verdant  arch.  Only  two  palms  are  to  be  found 
in  Rome  :  they  are  in  the  Monks'  Gardens  : 
one  is  on  a  height,  and  may  be  seen  from 
some  distance.  In  returning  towards  the  city, 
this  representative  of  Africa,  this  image  of  a 
meridian  more  burning  than  that  of  Italy, 
awakens  a  host  of  agreeable  sensations. 

"Do  you  not  find,"  said  Corinne,  "that 
nature  here  gives  birth  to  reveries  elsewhere 
unknown  1  She  is  as  intimate  with  the  heart 
of  man  as  if  the  Creator  made  her  the  iuter- 
pretess  between  his  creatures  and  himself." 
"  I  feel  all  this,"  replied  Oswald  ;  "  yet  it  may 
be  but  your  subduing  influence  which  renders 
me  so  susceptible.  You  reveal  to  me  emo- 
tions which  exterior  objects  may  create.:-,"  I 
lived  but  in  my  heart ;  you  have  awakened 
my  imagination.  But  the  magic  of  the  uni- 
verse, which  you  teach  me  to  appreciate,  will 
never  offer  me  aught  lovelier  than  your  looks, 
more  touching  than  your  voice."  "  May  the 
feeling  I  kindle  in  your  breast  to-day,"  said 
Corinne,  "  last  as  long  as  my  life  ;  or.  at  least, 
may  my  life  last  no  longer  than  your  love." 
They  finished  their  tour  by  the  Villa  Borghese. 
In  no  Roman  palace  or  garden  are  the  splen- 
dors of  nature  and  art  collected  so  tastefully. 
Every  kind  of  tree,  superb  waterfalls,  with  an 
incredible  blending  of  statues,  vases,  and  sar- 
cophagi, here  re-animale  the  mythology  of  the 
land.  Naiads  recline  beside  the  streams  ; 
nymphs  start  from  thickets  worthy  of  such 
guests.  Tombs  repose  beneath  Elysian 
shades  ;  JEsculapius  stands  in  the  centre  ot 
an  island ;  Venus  appears  gliding  from  a 
bower.  Ovid  and  Virgil  might  wander  here, 
and  believe  themselves  still  in  the  Augustan 
age.  The  great  works  of  sculpture,  which 
grace  this  scene,  give  it  a  charm  for  ever  new. 
Through  its  trees  may  be  descried  the  city, 
St.  Peter's,  the  Campagna,  and  those  long 
arcades,  ruins  of  aqueducts,  which  formerly 
conducted  many  a  mountain  stream  into  old 
Rome.  There  is  everything  that  can  mingle 
purity  with  pleasure,  and  promise  perfect 
happiness  ;  but  if  you  ask  why  this  delicious 
spot  is  not  inhabited,  you  will  be  told,  that 
the  cattiva  aria,  or  bad  air,  prevents  its 
being  occupied  in  summer.  This  enemy, 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


41 


each  year,  besieges  Rome  more  and  more 
closely — its  most  charming  abodes  are  de- 
serted perforce.  Doubtless  the  want  of  trees 
is  one  cause;  and  therefore,  perhaps,  did  the 
Romans  dedicate  their  woods  to  goddesses, 
that  they  might  be  respected  by  the  people  ; 
yet  have  numberless  forests  been  felled  in  our 
own  times.  What  can  now  be  so  sanctified  j 
that  avarice  will  forbear  its  devastation  1 1 
This  malaria  is  the  scourge  of  Rome,  and  ( 
often  threatens  its  whole  population ;  yet, 
perhaps,  it  adds  to  the  effect  produced  by  the 
lovely  gardens  to  be  found  within  the  bounda- 
ries. Its  malignant  power  is  betrayed  by  no 
:  external  sign ;  you  respire  an  air  that  seems 


pure  ;  the  earth  is  fertile ;  a  delicious  fresh- 
ness atones  in  the  evening  for  the  heat  of  the 
day  ;  and  all  this — is  death  ! 

"  I  love  such  invisible  danger."  said  Os- 
wald, "  veiled  as  it  is  in  delight.     If  death,  as 
I  believe,  be  but  a  call  to  a  happier  life,  why 
should  not  the  perfume  of  flowers,  the  shade  j 
of  fine  trees,  and  the  breath  of  eve,  be  charged  j 
to  tell  us  of^our  fate  ?     Of  course,  government  j 
ought,  in  every  way,  to  watch  over  human  I 
life  ;  but  nature  has  secrets  which  imagination  j 
only  can  penetrate  ;  and  I  easily  conceive  that 
neither  natives  nor  foreigners  find  anything  to 
disgust  them  in  the  perils  which  belong  to  the  j 
sweetest  seasons  of  the  year." 


BOOK      VI. 


ON       ITALIAN*       CHARACTER       AND       MANNERS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OSWALD'S  irresolution,  augmented  by  mis- 
fortunes, taught  him  to  fear  every  irrevocable 


engagement. 


He  dared  not  ask  Corinne  her 


name  or  story,  though  his  love  for  her  grew 
every  day  more  strong :  he  could  not  look  on 
her  without  emotion  ;  hardlv,  in  the  midst  of 


is  so  little  gossip  in  Italy,  that  people  do  what 
they  like,  without  comment,  at  least  without 
obstacle,  in  affairs  either  of  love  or  ambition. 
Foreigners  are  as  safe  as  natives  in  this  ren- 
dezvous of  Europeans.  When  Nelvil  learnt 
that  Corinne  was  going  to  a  ball,  he  was  out 
of  humor  ;  for  some  time  he  had  fancied  that 
he  detected  in  her  a 


melancholy  sympatl 
ddenly  all  her  thou 


hetic 

society,  quit  her  side  for  an  instant ;  she  said  I  with  his  own  ;  yet  suddenly  all  her  thoughts 
not  a  word  he  did  not  feel,  nor  expressed  a  j  seemed  occupied  with  the  dance  (in  which  she 
sentiment,  sad  or  gay,  that  was  not  reflected  j  so  much  excelled),  and  the  eclat  of  a  fete. 

Corinne  was  not  frivolous  ;  but  feeling  every 
day  more  subdued  by  love,  she  wished  to  com- 
bat its  force.  She  knew  by  experience  that 
reflection  and  forbearance  have  less  power 
over  impassioned  characters  than  engagements 
which  dissipate  thought ;  and  she  thought 
that,  if  unable  to  triumph  over  herself  as  she 
ought,  the  next  best  step  were  to  do  so  as  she 
could.  When  Nelvil  censured  her  intentions, 
she  replied,  "  I  want  to  ascertain  whether 
what  formerly  pleased  can  still  amuse  me,  or 
whether  my  regard  for  you  is  to  absorb  every 
other  interest  of  mv  life."  "You  would  fain 


in  his  face.  Yet,  loving,  admiring  her  as  he 
did,  he  forgot  not  how  little  such  a  wife  would 
accord  with  English  habits ;  how  much  she 
differed  from  the  idea  his  father  formed  of  the 
woman  it  would  become  him  to  marry  :  all  he 
said  to  Corinne  was  restrained  by  the  disquiet 
these  reflections  caused  him.  She  perceived 
this  but  too  plainly ;  yet  so  much  would  it 
have  cost  her  to  break  with  him,  that  she  lent 
herself  to  whatever  could  prevent  a  decisive 
explanation  ;  and  never  possessing  much 
consideration,  revelled  in  the  present,  such  as 
it  was,  not  dreaming  of  the  inevitable  future. 
She  entkely  secluded  herself  from  the  world 
in  this  devotion  to  hjm  ;  but,  at  last,  hurt  by 
his  silence  on  their  prospects,  she  resolved  to 
accept  a  pressing  invitation  to  a  ball.  No- 
thing is  more  common,  in  Rome,  than  persons 
tc  _e*ive  and  return  to  society  by  fits  :  there 


cease  to  love  me,"  he  said.  "  Not  so,"  she 
replied  ;  "but  it  is  only  in  domestic  life  that  it 
can  be  agreeable  to  feel  one's  self  under  the 
dominion  of  a  single  affection.  To  me,  who 
need  my  wit  and  genius  to  sustain  the  reputa- 
tion of  the  life  I  have  adopted,  it  is  a  great 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


misfortune  to  love  as  I  love  you."  "  You  will 
not  sacrifice  your  glory  to  me,  then  ]"  cried 
Oswald.  "  Of  what  importance  were  it  to 
you,"  she  replied,  "  if  I  did  1  Since  we  are 
'not  destined  for  each  other,  I  must  not  for 
ever  destroy  the  kind  of  happiness  with  which 
I  ought  to  content  myself."  Lord  Nelvil  said 
nothing ;  conscious  that  he  coujd  not  now 
speak  without  explaining  his  purposes ;  and, 
in  truth,  he  was  ignorant  of  them  himself. 
He  sighed,  and  reluctantly  followed  Corinne 
to  the  ball.  It  was  the  first  time,  since  his 
loss,  that  he  had  gone  to  such  an  assembly. 
Its  tumult  so  oppressed  him  that  he  remained 
for  some  period  in  a  hall  beside  the  dancing- 
room,  with  his  head  reclined  upon  his  hand ; 
not  even  wishing  to  see  Corinne  dance.  All 
music,  even  if  its  occasion  be  a  gay  one,  ren- 
.ders  us  pensive.  The  Count  d'Erfeuil  arrived, 
enchanted  with  the  crowd  and  amusements, 
which  once  more  reminded  him  of  France. 
"  I've  done  my  best,"  he  said,  "  to  interest 
myself  in  their  vaunted  ruins,  but  I  see  no- 
thing in  them  ;  'tis  a  mere  prejudice,  this  fuss 
about  rubbish  covered  with  briars  !  I  shall 
speak  my  mind  when  I  return  to  France ;  for 
it  is  high  time  that  the  farce  should  be  ended. 
There  is  not  a  single  building  of  to-dav,  in 
good  repair,  that  is  not  worth  all  these  trunks 
of  pillars,  and  mouldy  bas-reliefs,  which  can 
only  be  admired  through  the  spectacles  of  pe- 
dantry. A  rapture  which  one  must  purchase 
by  study  cannot  be  very  vivid  in  itself.  One 
needs  not  spoil  one's  complexion  over  musty 
books,  to  appreciate  the  sights  of  Paris." 

Lord  Nelvil  was  silent,  and  d'Erfeuil  ques- 
tioned him  on  his  opinion  of  Rome.  "  A  ball 
is  not  the  best  place  for  serious  conversation," 
said  Oswald  ;  "  and  you  know  that  I  can  afford 
you  no  other."  "  Well,  well,"  replied  the 
Count,  "  I  own  I  am  gayer  than  you  ;  but  who 
can  say  that  I  am  not  wiser  too  ?  Trust  me, 
there  is  much  philosophy  in  taking  the  world 
as  it  goes."  "  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  an- 
swered Oswald ;  "  but  as  you  are  what  you 
are  by  nature,  and  not  by  refaction,  your 
manner  of  living  can  belong  to  no  one  but 
yourself." 

D'Erfeuil  now  heard  the  name  of  Corinne 
from  the  ball-room,  and  went  to  learn  what 
was  doing  there.  Nelvil  followed  him  to  the 
door,  and  saw  the  handsome  Neapolitan  Prince 
Amalfi  soliciting  her  to  dance  the  Tarantula 
with  him.  All  her  friends  joined  in  this  re- 
quest. She  waited  for  no  importunity,  but 
promised  with  a  readiness  which  astonished 
D'Erfeuil,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  the  refu- 
sals with  which  it  is  the  fashion  to  precede 
consent.  In  Italy  these  airs  are  unknown  : 
there,  every  one  is  simple  enough  to  believe 
that  he  cannot  better  please  society  than  by 


promptly  fulfilling  whatever  it  requires.     Co- 
rinne would  have-  introduced  this  natural  man- 
ner, if  she  had  not  found  it  there.     The  dress 
she  had  assumed  was  light  and  elegant.     Her 
locks  were  confined  by  a  silken  fillet,  and  her 
eyes  expressed  an  animation  which  rendered 
her  more  attractive  than  ever.     Oswald  was 
uneasy  ;  displeased  with  his  own  subjection 
to  charms  whose  existence  he  was  inclined  to  j 
deplore,  as,  far  from  wishing  to  gratify  him,  | 
it  was  almost  in  order  to  escape   from  his 
power  that  Corinne  shone  forth  thus  enchant- 
ingly  :  yet,  who  can  resist  the  seductions  of 
grace  1     Even  in  scorn  she  would  have  been 
still  triumphant ;    bdt  scorn  was  not  in  her 
disposition.     She  perceived  her  lover  ;    and  j 
blushed,  as  she  bestowed  on  him  one  of  her  { 
sweetest  smiles. 

The  Prince   Amalfi   accompanied   himself 
with  castanets.     Corinne  saluted  the  assembly 
with  both  hands  ;  then,  turning,  took  the  tam- 
borine,  which   her  partner  presented  to  her, 
and  she  beat  time  as  he  danced.     Her  gestures 
displayed  that  easy  union  of  modesty  and  vo- 
luptuousness, which  gave  an  idea  of  the  power 
exercised  over  the  imagination  of  the  Indians 
by  the  Bayaderes — poets  of  the  dance  when  I 
they  depict  the  various  passions  by  character-  j 
istic    attitudes.      Corinne   was   so    well   ac-  I 
quainted  with  antique  painting  and  sculpture, 
that  her  positions  were  so  many  studies  for 
the  votaries  of  art.     Now  she  held  her  tam- 
borine  above  her  head  ;  sometimes  advanced 
it  with  one  hand,  while  the  other  ran  over  its 
little    bells   with    a   dexterous   rapidity   that  j. 
brought  to  mind  the  girls  of  Herculaneum.(14)  j 
This  was  not  French  dancing,  remarkable  for  | ; 
the  difficulty  of  its  steps  ;  it  was  a  movement 
more  allied  to  fancy  and  to  sentiment.     The 
air  to  which  she  danced  pleased  alternately 
by  its  softness  and  its  precision.     Corinne  as 
thoroughly  infected  the  spectators  with  her 
own  sensations  as  she  did  while  extemporizing 
poetry,  playing  on  her  lyre,  or  designing  an 
expressive  group.     Everything  was  language 
for  her.     The  musicians,  in  gazing  on  her,  ( 
felt  all  the  genius  of  their  art ;    and   every  j 
witness  of  this  magic  was  electrified  by  im- 
passioned joy,  transported  into  an  ideal  world, 
there  to  dream  of  bliss  unknown  below. 

There  is  a  part  of  the  Neapolitan  dance 
where  the  heroine  kneels,  while  her  partner 
marches  round  her,  like  a  conqueror1.  How 
dignified  looked  Corinne  at  that  moment ! 
What  a  sovereign  she  was  on  her  knees  !  and 
when  she  rose,  clashing  her  airy  tamborine, 
she  appeared  animated  by  such  enthusiasm  of 
youthful  beauty,  that  one  might  have  thought 
she  needed  no"  life  but  her  own  to  make  her 
happy.  Alas,  it  was  not  thus  !  though  Oswald 
feared  it,  and  sighed,  as  if  her  every  success  J 


CORJ.NNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


43 


separated  her  further  from  him.  When  the 
Prince,  in  his  turn,  knelt  to  Corinne,  she,  if 
possible,  surpassed  herself.  Twice  or  thrice 
she  fled  round  him,  her  sandalled  feet  skim- 
ming the  floor  with  the  speed  of  lightning  ; 
and  when,  shaking  her  tamborine  above  his 
head  with  one  hand,  she  signed  with  the  other 
lor  him  to  rise,  every  man  present  was  tempted 
to  prostrate  himself  before  her,  except  Lord 
Nelvil,  who  drew  back  some  paces,  and  d'- 
Erfeuil,  who  made  a  step  or  two  forwards,  in 
order  to  compliment  Corinne.  The  Italians 
gave  way  to  what  they  felt,  without  one  fear 
of  making  themselves  remarked.  They  were 
not  like  men  so  accustomed  to  society,  and 
the  self-love  which  it  excites,  as  to  think  on 
the  effect  they  might  produce  :  they  are  never 
to  be  turned  from  their  pleasures  by  vanity, 
nor  from  their  purposes  by  applause. 

Corinne,  charmed  with  the  result  of  her 
attempt,  thanked  her  friends  with  amiable 
simplicity.  She  was  satisfied,  and  permitted 
her  content  to  be  seen,  with  childlike  candor ; 
her  greatest  desire  was  to  get  through  the 
crowd  to  the  door,  against  which  Oswald  was 
leaning.  She  reached  it  at  last,  and  paused 
for  him  to  speak.  "  Corinne,"  he  said,  en- 
deavoring to  conceal  both  his  delight  and  his 
distress,  ''you  have  extorted  universal  ho- 
mage ;  but  is  there,  among  all  your  adorers, 
one  brave,  one  trusty  friend  ;  one  protector 
for  life  ?  or  can  the  clamors  of  flattery  suffice 
a  soul  like  yours  V 


CHAPTER  H. 

THE  press  of  the  company  prevented  Co- 
rinne's  reply  :  they  were  going  to  supper  ;  and 
each  cavaliere  servenle  hastened  to  seat  him- 
self beside  his  lady.  A  fair  stranger  arrived 
and  found  not  room ;  yet  not  a  man,  save  Os- 
wald and  d'Erfeuil,  rose  to  offer  her  his  place. 
j  i  Not  that  the  Romans  were  either  rude  or  sel- 
fish ;  but  they  believed  that  their  honor  de- 
pended on  their  never  quitting  their  post  of 
duty.  Some,  unable  to  gain  seats,  leaned  be- 
hind their  mistresses'  chairs,  ready  to  obey 
the  slightest  sign.  The  females  spoke  but 
to  ineir  lovers:  strangers  wandered  in  vain 
around  a  circle  where  no  one  had  a  word  to 
spare  them  ;  for  Italian  women  are  ignorant 
of  that  coquetry  which  renders  a  love  affair 
nothing  more  than  the  triumph  of  self-con- 
ceit :  they  wish  to  please  no  eyes  save  those 
that  are  dear  to  them.  The  mind  is  never  en- 
gaged before  the  heart.  The  most  abrupt 


commencements  are  often  followed  by  sincere 
devotion,  and  even  by  lasting  constancy.  In- 
fidelity is  more  censured  in  man  than  in  wo- 
man. Three  or  four  men,  beneath  different 
titles,  may  follow  the  same  beauty,  who  takes 
them  with  her  everywhere,  sometimes  with- 
out troubling  herself  to  name  them  to  the  mas- 
ter of  the  house  which  receives  the  party. 
One  is  the  favorite  ;  another  aspires  to  be  so  ; 
a  third  calls  himself  the  sufferer  (il  patito)  : 
though  disdained,  he  is  permitted  to  be  of  use  ; 
and  all  these  rivals  live  peaceably  together. 
It  is  only  among  the  common  people  that  you 
still  hear  of  the  stiletto  ;  but  the  whole  coun- 
try presents  a  wild  mixture  of  simplicity  and 
of  vice,  dissimulation  and  truth,  good-nature 
and  revenge,  strength  and  weakness  :  justify- 
ing the  remark,  that  the  best  of  these  quali- 
ties may  be  found  among  those  who  will  do 
nothing  for  vanity  ;  the  worst,  among  such  as 
will  do  anything  for  interest,  whether  the  in- 
terest of  love,  of  avarice,  or  ambition. 

Distinctions  of  rank  are  generally  disre- 
garded in  Italy.  It  is  not  from  philosophy, 
but  from  facility  of  character  and  familiarity 
of  mannersj  that  men  are  here  insensible  to 
aristocratic  prejudices :  constituting  them- 
selves judges  of  no  one,  they  admit  every, 
body. 

After  supper  all  sit  down  to  play  ;  some  of 
the  women  at  hazard,  others  chose  silent 
whist ;  and  not  a  word  was  now  uttered  in  the 
apartment,  so  noisy  just  before.  The  people 
of  the  South  often  run  thus  quickly  from  the 
extreme  of  agitation  to  that  of  repose  :  it  is 
one  of  the  peculiarities  of  their  character,  that 
indolence  is  succeeded  by  activity  :  indeed,  in 
all  respects  they  are  the  last  men  on  whose 
merits  or  defects  we  ought  to  decide  at  first 
sight ;  so  contrasted  are  the  qualities  they 
unite  :  the  creature  all  prudence  to-day  may 
be  all  audacity  to-morrow.  They  are  often 
apathetic,  but  it  is  perhaps  from  just  having 
made,  or  preparing  to  make,  some  great  exer- 
tion. In  fact,  they  waste  not  one  energy  of 
their  minds*  on  society,  but  hoard  them  till 
called  forth  by  strong  events. 

At  this  assembly  many  persons  lost  enor- 
mous sums,  without  the  slightest  change  of 
countenance ;  yet  the  same  beings  could  not 
have  related  a  trivial  anecdote  without  the 
most  lively  and  expressive  gesticulation.  But 
when  the  passions  have  attained  a  certain  de- 
gree of  violence,  they  shrink  from  sight,  and 
veil  themselves  in  silence. 

Nelvil  could  not  surmount  the  bitter  feelings 
which  this  ball  engendered  :  he  believed  that 
the  Italians  had  weaned  his  love  from  him,  at 
least  for  a  time.  He  was  very  wretched  ;  yet 
his  pride  prevented  his  evincing  aught  beyond 
a  contempt  for  the  tributes  offered  her.  When 


44 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


asked  to  play  he  refused,  as  did  Corinne,  who 
beckoned  him  to  sit  beside  her.  He  feared  to 
compromise  her  name  by  passing  a  whole 
evening  alone  with  her  before  the  eyes  of  the 
world.  ''  Be  at  ease  on  that  head,"  she  re- 
plied :  "  no  one  thinks  about  us.  Here  no 
established  etiquette  exacts  respect ;  a  kindly 
politeness  is  all  that  is  required  ;  no  one  wish- 
es to  annov  or  be  annoyed.  'Tis  true  we  have 
not  here  what  in  England  is  called  liberty  ; 
but  our  social  independence  is  perfect." 
"  That  is,"  said  Oswald,  *'  that  no  reverence 
is  paid  to  appearances."  "  At  least,  here  is 
no  hypocrisy,"  she  answered  —  "  Rochefou- 
cault  says,  '  The  least  among  the  defects  of  a 
woman  of  gallantry  is  that  of  being  one  ;'  but 
whatever  be  the  faults  of  Italian  women,  de- 
ceit does  not  conceal  them  ;  and  if  marriage 
vows  are  not  held  sufficiently  sacred,  they  are 
broken  by  mutual  consent."  "  It  is  not  sin- 
cerity that  causes  this  kind  of  frankness,"  re- 
plied Oswald,  "  but  indifference  to  public 
opinion.  I  brought  hither  an  introduction  to 
a  princess,  and  gave  it  to  thfe  servant  I  had 
hired  here,  who  said  to  me,  '  Ah,  Sir,  just  now, 
this  will  do  you  no  service,  the  princess  sees 
no  one  ;  she  is  innamorata.''  Thus  was  the 
fact  of  a  lady's  being  in  love  proclaimed  like 
any  other  domestic  affair.  Nor  is  this  publi- 
j  city  excused  by  fidelity  to  one  passion  :  many 
'  attachments  succeed  each  other,  all  equally 
well  known.  Women  have  so  little  mystery 
in  these  ties,  that  they  speak  of  them  with 
less  embarrassment  than  our  brides  could  t;ilk 
of  their  husbands.  It  is  not  easy  to  believe 
that  any  deep  or  refined  affection  can  exist 
with  this  shameless  fickleness.  Though  noth- 
ing is  thought  of  but  love,  here  can  be  no  ro- 
mance :  adventures  are  so  rapid,  and  so  open, 
that  nothing  is  left  to  be  developed  ;  and,  just- 
ly to  describe  the  general  taethod  of  arranging 
these  things,  one  ought  to  begin  and  end  in  the 
first  chapter.  Corinne,  pardon  me  if  I  give 
you  puin.  You  are  an  Italian  ;  that  should  dis- 
arm me  :  but  one  reason  why  you  are  thus  in- 
comparable is,  that  you  unite  the«best  charac- 
teristics of  our  different  nations.  I  know  not 
where  you  were  educated,  but  you  certainly 
cannot  "have  passed  all  your  life  here  :  perhaps 
it  was  in  England.  Ah,  if  so,  how  could  you 
leave  that  sanctuary  of  all  that  is  modest,  for 
a  land  where  not  only  virtue,  but  love  itself,  is 
so  little  understood.  It  may  be  breathed  in 
the  air,  but  does  it  reach  the  heart1?  The 
poetry,  here,  in  which  love  plays  so  great  a 
part,  is  full  of  brilliant  pictures,  indeed  ;  but 
where  will  you  find  the  melancholy  tender- 
ness of  our  bards  ?  What  have  you  to  com- 
pare with  the  parting  of  Jaffier  and  Belvidera. 
with  Romeo  and  Juliet,  or  with  the  lines  in 
Thomson's  Spring,  depicting  the  happiness 


of  wedded  life  ?  Js  there  "any  such  life  in 
Italy?  and,  without  homefelt  felicity,  how  can 
love  exist  '  Is  not  happiness  the  aim  "of  the 
heart,  as  pleasure  is  that  of  the  senses  1 
Would  not  all  young  and  lovely  women  be 
alike  to  us,  did  not  mental  qualities  decide  our 
preference  ?  Whal,  then,  do  these  qualities 
teach  us  to  crave !  an  intercourse  of  thought 
and  feeling,  permanent  and  undivided  !  This 
is  what  we  mean  by  marriage.  Illegitimate 
loi  e,  when,  unhappily,  it  does  occur  among 
us,  is  still  but  the  reflex  of  marriage.  The 
same  comfort  is  sought  abroad  which  cannot 
be  found  at  home  ;  and  even  infidelity  in  Eng- 
land is  more  moral  than  Italian  matrimony." 

This  severity  so  afflicted  Corinne  that  she 
rose,  her  eyes  filled  with  t^ars,  and  hurried 
home.  Oswald  was  in  despair  at  having  of- 
fended her  ;  but  the  irritation  this  ball  had 
dealt  him  found  a  channel  in  the  censure  be 
had  just  pronounced.  He  followed  her,  but 
she  would  not  see  him.  Next  morning  he 
made  another  attempt ;  but  her  door  was  still 
closed.  This  was  out  of  character  in  Co- 
rinne ;  but  she  was  so  dismayed  by  his  opi- 
nion of  her  countrywomen,  that  she  was  re- 
solved, if  possible,  to  conceal  her  affection 
from  him  for  ever.  Oswald,  on  his  PF rt,  was 
confirmed  by  this  unusual  conduct  in  the  dis- 
content this  unlucky  fete  had  engendered  ;  he 
was  excited  to  struggle  against  the  sentiment 
whose  empire  he  dreaded.  His  principles 
were  strict,  and  the  mystery  which  enveloped 
the  past  life  of  her  he  loved  caused  him  se- 
vere pain. 

Corinne's  manners  somewhat  evinced  a  too 
universal  wish  to  please  ;  her  conduct  and  car- 
riage were  noble  and  reserved  ;  but  her  opi- 
nions were  over-indulgent.  In  fact,  though 
dazzled  and  enervated,  something  still  com- 
bated his  weakness.  Such  a  state  often  em- 
bitters our  language  ;  we  are  displeased  with 
ourselves  and  others  :  we  suffer  so  much,  that 
we  long  to  brave  the  worst  at  once,  and,  by 
open  war,  ascertain  which  of  our  two  formi- 
dable emotions  is  to  triumph.  It  was  in  'this 
mood  that  he  wrote  to  Corinne.  He  knew  his 
letter  was  angry  and  unbecoming  ;  yet  aeon- 
fusion  of  impulses  urged  him  to  send  it.  He 
was  so  miserable  in  his  present  situation,  that 
he  longed,  at  any  price,  for  some  change  ;  and 
was  reckless  how  his  doubts  were  answered, 
so  that  they  came  to  a  termination.  A  rumor, 
brought  him  by  Count  oVErfeuil,  though  he  be- 
lieved it  not,  contributed,  perhaps,  to  vender 
his  style  still  more  unkind.  It  was  said  that 
Corinne  was  about  to  marry  Prino*  Amalfi. 
Oswald  knew  that  she  did  not  love  this  man, 
and  ought  to  have  been  sure  that  this  report 
sprung  merely  from  her  having  danced  with 
him  ;  but  he  persuaded  himself  that  she  had 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


4S 


received  Amain  when  denied  to  him  :  there- 
fore, though  too  proud  to  confess  his  persona 
jealousy,  he  vented  it  on  the  people  in  whose 
favor  he  knew  her  to  be  so  prepossessed. 


CHAPTER  II. 


"  TO    CORINNE. 

"January  24,  1795. 

"  You  refuse  to  see  me  :  you  are  offended 
by  my  last  conversation,  and  no  douht  intend 
henceforth  to  admit  none  but  your  country- 
men, and  thus  expiate  your  recent  deviation 
from  that  rule.  Yet,  fa'r  from  repenting  the 
sincerity  with  which  I  spoke  to  you,  whom, 
perhaps,  chimerically,  I  would  fain  consider 
an  Englishwoman,  I  will  dare  to  say  still  more 
plainly,  that  you  can  preserve  neither  your 
own  dignity  nor  your  own  peace,  by  choosing 
a  husband  from  your  present  society.  I  know 
not  one  Italian  who  deserves  you ;  not  one 
who  could  honor  you  by  his  alliance,  what- 
ever were  the  title  he  had  to  bestow  The 
men  are  far  less  estimable  here  than  the 
women,  to  whose  errors  they  add  worse  of 
their  own.  Would  you  persuade  me  that 
these  sons  of  the  South,  who  so  carefully 
avoid  all  trouble,  and  live  but  for  enjoyment, 
can  be  capable  of  love  ?  Did  you  not,  last 
month,  see  at  the  Opera  a  man  who  had  not 
eight  days  before  lost  a  wife  he  was  said  to 
adore  ?  The  memory  of  the  dead,  the  thought 
of  death  itself,  is  here,  as  much  as  possible, 
thrown  aside.  Funeral  ceremonies  are  per- 
formed by  the  priests,  as  the  duties  of  iove 
led  by  cavalieres  serventcs. 


are  fulfille 

has  prescribed  all  rite 


Custom 
beforehand  :    regret 


and  enthusiasm  are  nothing.  But  what,  above 
all,  must  be  destructive  to  love,  is  the  fact, 
that  your  men  cannot  be  respected :  women 
give  them  no  credit  for  submission,  because 


tary  glory  nor  free  institutions,  how  should 
men  acquire  strength  or  majesty  of  mind  ? 
Their  wit  degenerates  into  a  kind  of  clever- 
ness, with  which  they  play  the  game  of  life 
like  a  match  of  chess,  wherein  success  is 
everything-.  All  that  remains  of  their  love 
for  antiquity,  consists  in  exaggerated  expres- 
sions and  external  grandeur  ;  but,  beside  this 
baseless  greatness,  you  often  find  the  most 
vulgar  tastes,  the  most  miserably  neglected 
homes.  Is  this,  then,  Corinne,  the  country 
you  prefer?  Is  its  boisterous  applause  so  es- 
sential to  you,  that  every  other  kind  of  destiny 
would  seem  dull,  compared  with  those  re- 
echoing bravoes  ?  Who  could  hope  to  make 
you  happy,  in  tearing  you  from  this  tumult  T 
you  are  an  incomprehensible  person  :  deep  in 
feeling,  light  in  taste  ;  independent  by .  pride 
of  soul,  enslaved  by  a  desire  for  dissipation  ; 
capable  of  loving  but  one,  yet  requiring  the 
notice  of  all  the  world.  You  are  a  sorceress, 
who  alternately  disturb  and  reassure  me  ;  who, 
when  most  sublime,  can  at  once  descend  from 
thesregion  where  you  reign  alone,  to  lose  your-  i  I 
self  among  the  herd.  Corinne,  Corinne  !  in  j ! 
loving  you,  it  is  impossible  to  avoid  fearing  and 
doubting  too.  "  OswALp." 

Indignant  as  Corinne  felt  at  Nelvil's  an- 
tipathy to  her  country,  she  was  glad  to  per- 
ceive that  the  fete  and  her  refusal  to  receive 
him,  had  touched  him.  She  hesitated,  or 
believed  herself  hesitating,  for  some  time,  as 
to  the  line  of  conduct  she  ought  to  pursue. 
Love  made  her  sigh  for  his  presence  :  yet 
she  could  not  brook  his  supposing  that  she 
wished  to  be  his  wife;  though  in  fortune,  at 
least,  his  equal,  and  no  way  beneath  him  in 
name,  if  she  deigned  to  reveal  it.  The  un- 
controlled life  she  had  chosen  might  have 
given  her  some  aversion  to  marriage  ;  and 
certainly  she  would  have  rejected  the  idea,  1 
had  not  her  attachment  blinded  her  to  all  the 
pangs  she  must  endure  in  espousing  an  Eng- 
lishman, and  renouncing  Italy.  A  woman 
may  forget  her  pride  in  all  that  concerns  the 
heart :  but  when  worldly  interest  appears  the 


they  found  them  originally  weak,  and  destitute  |  obstacle  to  inclination  ;  when  the  person  be 
of  all  serious  employment.     It  is  requisite,  for  |  loved  can  be  accused  of  sacrificing   himself 

in  his  union,  she  can  no  longer  abandon  her- 


the perfection  of  natural  and  social  order,  thit 
men  should  protect,  and  women  be  protected ; 
but  by  guardians  adoring  the  weakness  they 
defend,  and  worshipping  the  gentle  divinity 
which,  like  the  Penates  of  the  ancients,  calls 
down  good  fortune  on  the  house.  'Here  one 
might  almost  say  that  woman  is  the  sultan, 
and  men  her  seraglio  :  it  is  they  who  have 
most  pliancy  and  softness.  An  Italian  pro- 
verb says,  '  Who  knows  not  how  to  feign, 
knows  not  how  to  live.'  Is  not  that  a  femin- 
ine maxim  ?  but  where  you  have  neither  mili- 


self  to   her  feelings  before  him.      Corinne. 
however,    unable   to   break  with   her   lover,  1 
trusted   that   she  still  might  meet  him,  yet  i 
conceal  her  affection.     It  was  in  this  belief ! 
that  she  determined  on  replying  only  to  his 
accusations  of  the  Italians,  and  reasoning  on 
them  as  if   interested    in   no  other  subject,    j 
Perhaps  the  best  way  in  which  such  a  woman 
can  regain  her  coldness  and  her  dignity,  is 
that  of  entrenching  herself  in  the  fortress  of 
her  mental  superiority. 


46 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


"  TO  LORD  NELVIL. 

"  January  25,  1795. 

"  IF  your  letter  concerned  no  one  but  me, 
my  Lord,  I  should  not  attempt  to  justify  my- 
self. My  character  is  so  easily  known,  that 
he  who  cannot  comprehend  it  intuitively, 
would  not  be  enlightened  by  any  explanation 
I  could  give.  The  virtuous  reserve  of  Eng- 
lishwomen, and  the  more  artful  graces  of 
the  French,  often  conceal  one-half  of  what 
passes  in  their  bosoms  :  and  what  you  are 
pleased  to  call  magic  in  me,  is  nothing  but  an 
unconstrained  disposition,  which  permits  my 
varying,  my  inconsistent,  thoughts  to  be  heard, 
without  my  taking  the  pains  of  bringing  them 
into  tune.  Such  harmony  is  nearly  always 
factitious  ;  for  most  genuine  characters  are 
heedlessly  confiding.  But  it  is  not  of  my- 
self that  I  would  speak  to  you  ;  it  is  of  the 
unfortunate  nation  whom  you  attack  so  cruelly. 
Can  my  regard  for  my  friends  have  instilled 
this  bitter  malignity  ?  You  know  me  too  well 
to  be  jealous  of  them  ;  nor  have  I  the  vanity 
to  suppose  that  any  such  sentiment  has  ren- 
dered you  thus  unjust.  You  say  but  what  all 
foreigners  say  of  the  Italians,  what  must 
strike  every  one  at  first ;  but  you  should  look 
deeper  ere  you  thus  censure  a  people  once  so 
great.  Whence  came  it  that  in  the  Roman 
d;iy  they  were  the  most  military  men  in  the 
world  ;  during  the  republics  of  the  middle 
ages,  the  most  tenacious  of  their  freedom  ; 
and,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  the  most  illus- 
trious for  literature,  science,  and  the  arts  ? 
Has  not  Italy  pursued  fame  in  every  shape  1 
If  it  be  lost  to  her  now,  blame  her  political 
situation  ;  since,  in  other  circumstances,  she 
showed  herself  so  unlike  all  she  is.  I  may 
be  wrong,  but  the  faults  of  the  Italians  only 
enhance  my  pity  for  their  fate.  Strangers, 
from  time  to  time,  have  conquered  and  dis- 
tracted this  fair  land,  the  object  of  their  per- 
petual ambition  ;  yet  strangers  for  ever  re- 
proach her  natives  with  the  defects  inevitable 
to  a  vanquished  race. 

"  Europe  owes  her  learning,  her  accomplish- 
ments, to  the  Italians  ;  and  having  turned 
their  own  gifts  against  them,  would  gladly 
deny  them  the  only  glory  left  to  a  people  de- 
prived of  martial  power  and  public  liberty. 
It  is  true  that  governments  form  the  charac- 
ters of  nations ;  and,  in  Italy  herself,  you 
will  find  remarkable  distinctions  between  the 
inhabitants  of  different  states.  The  Pied- 
montese,  who  once  formed  a  small  national 
corps,  have  a  more  warlike  spirit  than  the 
rest.  The  Florentines,  who  have  mostly 
possessed  either  freedom  or  liberal  rulers,  are 
well-educated  and  well-mannered.  The 
Venetians  and  the  Genoese  evince  a  capacity 


for  politics,  because  they  have  a  republican 
aristocracy.  The  Milanese  are  more  sincere, 
thanks  to  their  long  intercourse  with  northern 
nations.  The  Neapolitans,  are  prompt  to  re- 
bel, having  for  ages  lived  beneath  an  imper- 
fect government,  but  still  one  of  their  own. 
The  Roman  nobles  have  nothing  to  do,  either 
diplomatic  or  military,  and  may  well  remain 
idly  ignorant ;  but  the  ecclesiastics,  whose 
careers  are  definite,  have  faculties  far  more 
developed  ;  and,  as  the  papal  law  observes  no 
distinction  of  birth,  but  is  purely  elective  in 
its  ordinance  of  the  clergy,  the  result  is,  a 
species  of  liberty,  not  in  ideas,  but  in  habits, 
which  renders  Rome  the  most  agreeable 
abode  for  those  who  have  neither  power  nor 
emulation  for  sustaining  a  part  in  the  world. 
The  people  of  the  South  are  more  easily 
modified  by  existing  institutions  than  those  of 
the  North.  This  climate  induces  a  languor 
favorable  to  resignation,  and  nature  offers 
enough  to  console  man  for  the  advantages 
society  denies.  Undoubtedly  there  is  much 
corruption  in  Italy  ;  its  civilisation  is  far 
from  refinement.  There  is  a  savage  wildness 
|  beneath  Italian  cunning  ;  it  is  that  of  a  hunter 
lying  in  wait  for  his  prey.  Indolent  people 
easily  become  sly  and  shifting  ;  their  natural 
gentleness  serves  to  hide  even  a  fit  of  rage  ; 
for  it  is  by  our  habitual  manner  that  an  acci- 
dental change  of  feeling  may  be  best  con- 
cealed. Yet  Italians  have  both  truth  and 
constancy  in  their  private  connections.  In- 
terest may  sway  them,  but  not  pride.  Here 
is  no  ceremony,  no  fashion  ;  none  of  the  little 
every  day  tricks  for  creating  a  sensation. 
The  usual  sources  of  artifice  and  of  envy 
exist  not  here.  Foes  and  rivals  are  deceived  j 
by  those  who  consider  themselves  at  war  j 
with  them  ;  but,  while  in  peace.  '-hey  act  with  i 
honesty  and  candor.  This  is  Lie  very  cause  j 
of  your  complaint.  Our  women  hear  of  no-  I 
thing  but  love  ;  they  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  ! 
seduction  and  dangerous  example  ;  yet  their 
frankness  lends  an  innocence  to  gallantry  it- 
self. They  "have  no  fear  of  ridicule  :  many 
are  so  ignorant  that' they  cannot  even  write, 
and  confess  it  without  scruple.  They  engage 
a  Paglletto  to  answer  letters  for  them,  which 
he  does  on  paper  large  enough  for  a  petition. 
But  on  the  othor  hand,  among  the  educated, 
you  will  find  some  who  are  professors  in  the 
academies,  giving  public  lectures  'in  their  |, 
black  scarfs  ;  and  if  you  are  inclined  to  laugh 
at  them,  they  ask  you,  '  Is  there  any  harm  in 
understanding  Greek,  or  living  by  your  own 
exertions  !  How  can  you  deride  "so"  simple  a 
proceeding  ]' 

"  Dare  I,  my  Lord,  touch  on  a  more  delicate 
subject  ] — the  reason  why  our  men  so  seldom 
display  a  military  spirit.  They  readily  ex- 


JT 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


47 


I  po?e  their   lives  for  love   or  hate  :  in  such 
!  causes,  the  wounds  given  and  received  neither 
astonish  nor  alarm  their  witnesses.    Fearless 
!  of  death,    when    natural   passions   command 
them  to  defy  it,  they  still,  I  must  confess, 
i  value  life  above  the  political  interests  which 
I  slightly  affect   those    who    can  scarcely  be 
|  said  to  have  a  country.     Chivalrous   honor 
j  has    little    influence   over    a   people   among 
j  whom  the  opinions  that  nourish  it  are  dead  ; 
I  naturally  enough,  in  such  a  disorganization  of 
I  public  affairs,  women  gain  a  great  ascenden- 
j  cy ;  perhaps  too  much  so  for  them  te  respect 
i  or   admire   their   lovers,  who,  nevertheless, 
j  treat  them  with  the  most  delicate  devotion. 
|  Domestic  virtue  constitutes  the  welfare  and 
|  the  pride  of  Englishwomen  ;  but  in  no  land, 
i  where  love  dispenses  with  its  sacred  bonds,  is 
the  happiness  of  women  watched  over  as  in 
j  Italy.     If  our  men  cannot  make  a  moral  code 
i  for  immorality,  they  are  at  least  just  and  gen-. 
i  erous  in  their  participation  of  cares  and  du- 
I  ties.     They  consider  themselves  more  culpa- 
:  ble   than  their  mistresses  when  they  break 
;  their  chains  :  they  know  that  women  make 
!  the  heaviest  sacrifice  ;  and  believe  that,  be- 
|  fore  the  tribunal   of  the  heart,  the  greatest 
criminals   are   those   who    have   done    most 
wrong.     Men  err  from  selfishness  ;  women 
because  they  are  weak.     Where  society  is  at 
once  rigorous  and  corrupt,  that  is,  most  mer- 
i  ciless  to  the  faults  that  are  followed  by  the 
i  worst  misfortunes,  women  of  course  are  used 
j|  with  more  severity  ;  but  where  so  little  social 
; ;  organization  exists  as  with  us,  natural  charity 
I  has  a  greater  power.     Spite  of  all  that  has 
|  been  said  of  Italian  perfidy,  I  will  assert,  that 
!  there  is  as  much  real  good  nature  here  as  in 
j  any  other  country  of  tfye  world  ;    and  that, 
i  slandered  as  it  is  by  strangers,  they  will  no- 
where meet  with  a  kinder  reception.     Italians 
I  are  reproached   as   flatterers  ;  it  is  with  no 
!  premeditated  plan,  bat  in  mere  eagerness  to 
i  please,  that  they  lavish  expressions  of  affec- 
tion, not  often  belied  by  their  conduct.    Would 
they  be  ever-faithful  friends,  if  called  on  to 
prove  so  in  danger  or  adversity  1     A  very 
small  number,  I  allow,  might  be  capable  of 
such  friendship  ;  but  it  is  not  to  Italy  alone 
that  this  observation  is  applicable. 

"  The  Italians  have  an  indolence  almost  Ori- 
ental, in  their  habits  of  life  ;  but  there  are 
no  men  more  active  and  persevering  when 
once  their  passions  are  excited.  The  women, 
too,  whom  you  see  as  indolent  as  the  Oda- 
lisques of  the  seraglio,  are  capable  upon  oc- 
casion of  the  most  energetic  efforts.  There 
are  great  mysteries  in  the  character  and 
spirit  of  the  Italians  ;  you  meet  in  turn  un- 
looked-for traits  of  generosity  and  friendship, 
and  dark  and  fearful  proofs  of  hatred  and 


vengeance.  You  do  not  see  here  a  restless 
emulation  about  nothing.  Life  is,  to  them,  a 
dreamy  sleep  under  a  cloudless  sky  ;  but  give 
to  these  men  an  object,  and  in  six  months  you 
will  find  that  they  will  learn  everything  and 
comprehend  everything  necessary  to  its  ac- 
complishment. So  with  the  women  ; — Why 
should  they  instruct  themselves  when  but  few 
of  the  other  sex  could  understand  them? 
They  would  isolate  their  hearts  in  cultivating 
their  minds.  But  those  very  women  would 
soon  become  worthy  of  a  superior  man,  should 
such  a  man  ever  become  the  object  of  their 
attachment.  There  is  a  general  repose  here  : 
but  in  a  country  where  all  great  interests  are 
suppressed,  repose  and  indifference  are  more 
noble  than  a  vain  agitation  about  trifles. 

"  Literature  itself  must  languish  where 
thoughts  are  not  renewed  by  vigorous  and  va- 
ried action.  Yet  in  what  land  have  arts  and 
letters  been  more  worshipped  ?  History 
shows  us,  that  the  popes,  princes,  and  people 
have  at  all  times  done  homage  to  distinguish- 
ed painters,  sculptors,  poets,  and  other  writ- 
ers. (15)  This  enthusiasm  was,  I  own,  my 
Lord,  one  of  the  first  motives  which  attached 
me  to  this  country.  I  did  not  find  here  those 
sacred  imaginations,  that  discouraging  spirit, 
nor  that  despotic  mediocrity,  which,  else- 
where, can  so  soon  gall  and  stifle  innate 
ability.  Here  a  felicitous  phrase  takes  fire, 
as  it  were,  among  its  auditors.  As  genius  is 
the  gift  which  ranks  highest  amongst  us,  it 
inevitably  excites  much  envy.  Pergolesi 
was  assassinated  for  his  Stabat :  Giorgione 
wore  a  cuirass,  when  obliged  to  paint  in  any 
public  place  ;  but  the  violent  jealousy  to 
which  talent  gives  birth  here,  is  such  as  in 
other  realms  is  created  by  power ;  it  seeks 
not  to  degrade  its  object ;  it  can  hate,  pro- 
scribe, kill,  yet  always  mingled  with  the 
fanaticism  of  admiration,  it  excites  genius 
even  while  it  persecutes  it.  Finally,  when 
we  see  so  much  life  in  a  circle  so  contracted, 
in  the  midst  of  so  many  obstacles  and  op- 
pressions, we  can  hardly  forbear  from  a  vivid 
solicitude  for  those  who  respire  with  such 
avidity  the  little  air  that  imagination  breathes 
through  the  boundaries  which  confine  them. 
These  are  so  limited,  that  the  Italians  of  our 
day  rarely  acquire  the  pride  and  firmness, 
which  mark  the  character  of  freer  and  more 
military  nations.  I  will  even  confess,  if  you 
desire  it,  my  Lord,  that  such  a  character 
must  inspire  a  woman  with  more  enthusiasm  ; 
but  is  it  not  possible  that  a  man  may  be  brave, 
honorable,  nay,  unite  all  the  attributes  which 
can  teach  us  to  love,  without  possessing  those 
that  might  promise  us  content  1 

"  CORINNE." 


48 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THIS  letter  of  Corinne  revived  all  Oswald's 
remorse  at  having  even  thought  of  dot- 
himself  from  her.  The  intellectual  dignity 
and  mildness  of  its  reproof  affected  him  deep- 
ly. A  superiority  so  vast,  so  real,  yet  so 
simple,  appeared  to  him  above  all  ordinary 
rules.  He  was  sensible  that  this  was  not  the 
tender  creature,  timid  and  yielding  in  every- 
thing but  her  principles  and  her  duties,  which 
his  fancy  had  chosen  for  the  partner  oi'  his 
life  :  all  he  remembered  of  Lucy  Edgarraond, 
at  twelve  years  of  age,  better  accorded  with 
that  ideal.  But  who  could  he  compared  with 
Corinne  "?  She  was  a  miracle  formed  by  na- 
ture, in  his  heUah',  he  dared  believe  ;  since  he 
might  flatter  himself  that  he  was  dear  to  her. 
But  what  was  her  name,  what  her  history, 
what  would  be  his  prospects  if  he  declared  his 
inclination  to  make  her  his  wife  ?  Such,  he 
thought,  would  be  his  decision  ;  yet  the  idea 
that  her  past  life  might  not  have  been  entire- 
ly irreproachable,  and  that  such  an  union  would 
assuredly  have  been  condemned  by  his  father, 
'  again  overwhelmed  him  with  painful  anxiety. 
I  He  was  not  so  subdued  by  grief,  as  he  had 
|  been  ere  he  met  Corinne;  but  he  no  Jonger 
felt  the  calm  which  may  accompany  repent- 
ance, when  a  whole  life  is  devoted  to  expiate 
our  faults.  Formerly  he  did  not  fear  yielding 
to  his  saddest  memories,  but  now  he  dreaded 
the  meditations  which  revealed  to  him  the  se- 
crets of  his  heart.  He  was  preparing  to  seek 
Corinne,  to  thank  her  for  her  letter,  and  ob- 
tain pardon  for  his  own,  when  his  apartment 
was  suddenly  entered  by  Mr.  Edgarmond,  the 
young  Lucy's  near  relation. 

This  gentleman  had  lived  chiefly  on  his  es- 
tate in  Wales  :  he  possessed  just  the  princi- 
ples and  the  prejudice.that  serve  to,keep  things 
as  they  are  ;  and  this  is' an  advantage  where 
things  are  as  well  arranged  as  human  reason 
permits.  In  such  a  case,  the  partisans  of  es- 
tablished order,  even  though  stubbornly  bigot- 
ed to  their  own  way  of  thinking,  deserve  to  be 
regarded  as  rational  and  enlightened  men. 

Lord  Nelvil  shuddered  as  this  name  was  an- 
nounced. All  the  past  seemed  to  rise  before 
him  in  an  instant;  and  his  next  idea  was,  that 
Lady  Edgarmond,  the  mother  of  Lucy,  had 
charged  her  kinsman  with  reproaches.  This 
thought  restored  his  sslf-command ;  he  re- 
ceived his  countryman  with  excessive  cold- 
ness ;  though  not  a  single  aim  of  Mr.  Ed- 
garmond's  journey  concerned  our  hero.  He 
was  travelling  for  his  health,  exercising  him- 
self in  the  chase,  and  drinking  ';  Success  to 
King  George  and  old  England  !'  He  was 
one  of  the  best  men  in  the  world,  with  more 
wit  and  education  than  would  have  been  sup- 


posed ;  ultra-English,  even  on  points  where  it 
would  have  ho  en  advisable  to  be  less  so  ;  keep- 
ing up,  in  aii  conn-tries,  the  habits  of  his  own, 
and  avoiding  their  natives,  not  from  contempt, 
but  a  reluctance  to  speak  in  foreign  tongues, 
and  a  timidity  which,  at  the  age  of  fifty,  ren- 
dered him  extremely  shy  of  ntw  acquaint- 
ance. 

'•'  1  am  delighted  to  see  you,"  he  said  to 
Nelvil.  "  I  go  to  Naples  in  a  fortnight :  shall 
I  iiiiti  you  there  1  I  wish  I  may  !  having  but 
little  tune  to  stay  in  Italy,  as  my  regiment  em- 
:barks  shortly."  "  Your  regiment !"  repeated 
Oswald,  coloring,  not  that  he  had  forgotten 
that,  having  a  year's  leave  of  absence,  his 
presence  would  not  be  so  soon  required  ;  but 
he  blushed  to  think  that  Corinne  might  banish 
even  duty  from  his  mind.  "  Your  corps,'' 
continued  Mr.  Edgarmond,  "  will  leave  yon 
more  leisure  for  the  quiet  necessary  to  restore 
your  strength.  Just  before  I  left  England  I 
saw  a  little  cousin  of  mine  in  whom  you  are 
interested  :  she  is  a  charming  girl !  and,  by 
the  time  you  return,  next  year.  I  don't  doubt 
that  she  will  be  the  finest  woman  in  England." 
Nelvil  was  silent,  and  Mr.  Edgarrnohd  too. 
For  some  time  after  this,  they  addressed  each 
other  very  laconically,  though  with  kinJ  po- 
liteness, and  the  guest  rose  to  depart ;  but, 
turning  from  the  door,  said,  abruptly,  "  Apro- 
pos, my  Lord,  you  can  do  me  a  favor.  I  am 
told  that  you  know  the  celebrated  Corinne  : 
and,  though  1  generally  shrink  from  foreign- 
ers, I  am  really  curious  to  see  her."  "  I  will 
ask  her  permission  to  take  you  to  her  house, 
then,''  replied  Oswald.  "  Do,  I  beg  :  let  me 
see  her  some  day  when  she  extemporises, 
dances,  and  sings."  "  Corinne,"  returned 
Nelvil,  "  does  not  thus  display  her  accom- 
plishments before  strangers;  she  is  every  way 
your  equal  and  mine."  '•  Forgive  my  mis- 
take,'' cried  his  friend  ;  "  but  as  she  is  merely 
called  Corinne,  and,  at  six-and-twenty,  lives 
unprotected  by  any  one  of  her  family,  I  thought 
that  she  subsisted  by  her  talents,  and  might  i 
gladly  seize  any  opportunity  of  making  them 
known."  "  Her  fortune  is  independent,"  re- 
plied Oswald,  hastily  ;  "  her  mind  still  more 
so."  Mr.  Edgarmond  regretted  that  he  had 
mentioned  her,  seeing  that  the  topic  interest- 
ed Lord  Nelvil.  x 

No  people  on  earth  deal  more  considerately  !' 
with  true  affections  than  do  the  English.    He    j 
departed  :   Oswald  remained  alone,  exclaim-    ' 
ing  to  himself,  "  I  ought  to  marry  Corinne  !  I 
must  secure  her  against  future  misinterpreta- 
tion.    I  will  offer  her  the  little  I  can,  rank  and 
name,  in  return  for  the  felicity  which  she  alone 
can  grant  me.''     In  this  mood,  full  of  hope  and 
love,  he   hastened   to   her  house  ;  yet,  by  a 
natural  impulse  of  diffidence,  began  by  reaa- 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


49 


suring  himself  with  conversation  on  indifferent 
themes :  among  them  was  the  request  of  Mr. 
Edgarmond.     She  was  evidently  discomposed 
by  that  name,  and,  in  a  trembling  voice,  re- 
fused his  visit.     Oswald  was  greatly  astonish- 
j !  ed.    "  I  should  have  thought  that  with  you,  who 
|  receive  so  much  company,"  he  said,  "  the  title 
i  of  my  friend  would  be  no  motive  for  exclu- 
sion."    "  Do  not  be  offended,  my  Lord,"  she 
'.  said  ;  "  believe  me,  I  must  have  powerful  rea- 
|  sons  for  denying  any  wish  of  yours."     "  Will 
!  you  tell  me  those  reasons  1"  he  asked.     "  Im- 
!    possible  !"  she  answered.     "  Be  it  so,  then," 
I    he  articulated.     The  vehemence  of  his  feel- 
i    ings  checked  his  speech  ;  he  would  have  left 
||  her,  but  Corinne,  through  her  tears,  exclaim- 
ed in  English.  "  For  God's  sake  stay,  if  you 
would  not  break  my  heart !" 

These  words  and  accents  thrilled  Nelvil  to 
the  soul ;  he  reseated  himself  at  some  distance 
from  her,  leaning  his  head  against  an  alabas- 
ter vase,  and  murmuring,  "  Cruel  woman ! 
you  see  I  love  you,  and  am  at  any  moment 
,  ready  to  offer  you  my  hand  ;  yet  you  will  not 
tell  me  who  you  are,  Corinne  !  Tell  me  now  !'' 
li  Oswald,"  she  sighed,  "  you  know  not  how 
you  pain  me  :  were  I  rash  enough  to  obey, 
you  would  cease  to  love  me."  "  Great  God  !" 
he  cried, "  what  have  you  to  reveal  T'  "  Noth- 
ing that  rendefs  me  unworthy  of  you  ;  but  do 
not  exact  it.  Sjome  dav,  perhaps,  when  you 
love  me  better — if — ah !  I  know  not  what  I 
say — you  shall  know  all,  but  do  not  abandon 
me  unheard.  Promise  it  in  the  name  of  your 
now  sainted  father  !" 

"  Name  him  not !"  raved  Oswald.     "  Know 
you  if  he  would  unite  or  part  us?     If  yoube- 
j  lieve  he  wcnuld  consent,  say  so,  and  I  shall 
:  surmount  this  anguish.     I  will  one  day  tell 
you   the  sad  story  of  my  life ;  but  now,  be- 
hold the  state  to  which  you   have  reduced 
:  me  !" 

Cold   dews   stood  on  his  pale   brow :    his 
trembling  lips  could  utter  no  more.     Corinne 
seated  herself  beside  him ;  and,  holding  his 
j    hand  in  hers  tenderly,  recalled  him  to  himself. 
I;  »  My. dear  Oswald  !"  she  said,  "  ask  Mr.   Ed- 
!    garmond  if  he   was  ever  in  Northumberland, 
}    or,  at  least,  if  he  has  been  there  only  within 
i  the  last  five  years  :  if  so,  you  may  bring  him 
hither."     Oswald  gazed  fixedly  on  her  ;  she 
cast  down  her  eyes  in  silence.     "  I  will  do 
what  you  desire,"  he  said,  and  departed.     Se- 
cluded in  his  chamber,  he  exhausted  his  con- 
jectures on  the  secrets  of  Corinne.     It  ap- 
:  peared  evident  that  she  had  passed  some  time 
j  in  England,  and  that  her  family  name  must  be 
;  known  there  :  but  what  was  her  motive  for 
concealment,  and  why  had  she  left  his  coun- 
try ?     He  was  convinced  that  no  stain  could 
attach  to  her  life  ;  but  he  feared  that  a  combi- 


nation of  circumstances  might  have  made  her 
seem  hlamable  in  the  eyes  of  others.  He  was 
armed  against  the  disapprobation  of  every 
country  save  England.  The  memory  of  his 
father  was  so  entwined  with  that  of  his  native  i 
land,  that  each  sentiment  strengthened  the  I 
other.  Oswald  learned  from  Edgarmond  that 
he  had  visited  Northumberland  for  the  first 
time  a  year  ago ;  and  therefore  promised  to 
introduce  him  at  Corinne's  that  evening.  He 
was  the  first  to  arrive  there,  in  order  to  warn 
her  against  the  misconceptions  of  his  friend, 
and  beg  her,  by  a  cold  reserve  of  manner,  to 
show  him  how  much  he  was  deceived. 

"  If  you  permit  me,"  she  observed,  "  I  would 
rather  treat  him  as  I  do  every  one  else.  If 
he  wishes  to  hear  the  improvisatrice,  he  shall  ; 
I  will  show  myself  to  him  such  as  I  am;  for 
I  think  he  will  as  easily  perceive  my  rightful 
pride  through  this  simple  conduct,  as  if  I  be- 
haved with  an  affected  constraint."  "  You  are 
right,  Corinne,"  said  Oswald  :  "  how  wrong 
were  he  who  would  attempt  to  change  you 
from  your  admirable  self!"  The  rest  of  the 
party  now  joined  them.  Nelvil  placed  him- 
self near  Corinne  with  a  marked  air  of  defe- 
rence, rather  to  command  that  of  others  than 
to  satisfy  himself ;  he  had  soon  the  joy  of  find- 
ing this  effort  needless.  She  captivated  Ed- 
garmond, not  only  by  her  charms  and  conver- 
sation, but  by  inspiring  that  esteem  which 
sterling  characters,  however  contrasted,  nalu- 
rally  feel  for  each  other ;  and  when  he  ven- 
tured on  asking  her  to  improvisate  for  him,  he 
solicited  this  favor  with  the  most  respectful 
earnestness.  She  consented  without  delay  ; 
for  she  knew  how  to  give  her  favors  a  value 
beyond  that  of  difficult  attainment.  She  was 
anxious  to  please  the  countryman  of  Nelvil, — 
a  man  whose  report  of  her  ought  to  have  some 
weight, — but  these  thoughts  occasioned  her 
so  sudden  a  tremor,  that  she  knew  not  how  to 
begin.  Oswald,  anxious  lest  they  should  not 
appear  to  advantage  before  an  Englishman, 
turned  away  his  eyes,  in  obvious  embarrass- 
ment ;  and  Corinne,  thinking  of  no  one  but 
himself,  lost  all  her  presence  of  mind.;  nor 
ideas,  nor  even  words,  were  at  her  call ;  and, 
suddenly  giving  up  the  attempt,  she  said  to 
Mr.  Edgarmond,  "  Forgive  me,  sir  ;  fear  robs 
me  of  all  power.  'Tis  the  first  time,  my 
friends  know,  that  I  was  ever  thus  beside  my- 
self; but,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh,  "  it  may 
not  be  the  last." 

Till  now,  Oswald  had  seen  her  genius 
triumph  over  her  affections  ;  but  now  feeling 
had  entirely  subdued  her  mind  :  yet  so  identi- 
fied did  he  feel  himself  with  her  glory,  that 
he  suffered  beneath  this  failure,  instead  of  en- 
joying it.  Certain,  however,  that  she  would 
excel  on  a  future  interview  with  his  friend,  he 


50 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


gave  himself  up  to  the  sweet  pledge  of  his 
own  power  which  he  had  just  received  ;  and 


the  image  of  his  beloved  reigned  more  secure- 
ly in  his  heart  than  ever. 


BOOK      VII. 

ITALIAN       LITERATURE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

LORD  NELVIL  was  very  desirous  that  Mr. 
Edgarmond  should  enjoy  the  conversation  of 
Corinne,  which  far  surpassed  her  improvised 
verses.  On  the  following  day,  the  same^party 
assembled  at  her  house ;  and,  to  elicit  her 
remarks,  he  turned  the  discourse  on  Italian 
literature,  provoking  her  natural  vivacity  by 
affirming  that  England  could  boast  a  greater 
number  of  true  poets  than  Italy.  "In  the 
first  place,"  said  Corinne,  "  foreigners  usually 
know  none  but  our  first-rate  poets  :  Dante, 
Petrarch,  Ariosto,  Guarini,  Tasso,  and  Me- 
tastasio  ;  but  we  have  many  others,  such  as 
Chiabrera,  Guidi,  Filicaja,  and  Parini,  without 
reckoning  Sannazer  Politian,  who  wrote  in 
Latin.  All  their  verses  are  harmoniously 
colored  ;  all,. more  or  less,  knew  how  to  intro- 
duce the  wonders  of  nature  and  art  into  their 
verbal  pictures.  Doubtless  they  want  the 
melancholy  grandeur  of  your  bards,  and  their 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart ;  but  does  not 
this  kind  of  superiority  become  the  philosopher 
better  than  the  poet  •?  The  brilliant  melody, 
of  our  language  is  rather  adapted  to  describe 
external  objects  than  abstract  meditation  :  it 
is  more  competent  to  depict  fury  than  sad- 
ness ;  for  reflection  calls  for  metaphysical  ex- 
pressions ;  while  revenge  excites  the  fancy, 
and  banishes  the  thought  of  grief.  Cesarotti 
has  translated  Ossian  in  the  most  elegant 
manner  ;  but,  in  reading  him,  we  feel  that  his 
words  are  in  themselves  too  joyous  for  the 
gloomy  ideas  they  would  recall ;  we  yield  to 
the  charm  of  our  soft  phrases,  as  |o  the  mur- 
mur of  waves  or  the  tints  of  flowers.  What 
more  would  you  exact  of  poetry  ?  If  you  ask 
the  nightingale  the  meaning  of  his  song,  he 
can  explain  but  by  recommencing"  it :  we  cao 
only  appreciate  its  music  by  giving  way  to  the 
impression  it  makes  on  us.  Our  measured 
lines,  with  rapid  terminations,  composed  of 
two  brief  syllables,  glide  along  as  their  name 
(Sdruccioli)  denotes,  sometimes  imitating  trie 


light  steps  of  a  dance ;  sometimes,  with  graver 
tone,  realizing  the  tumult  of  a  tempest,  or  the 
clash  of  arms.  Our  pSetry  is  a  wonder  of 
imagination  ;  you  ought  not  there  to  seek  for 
every  species  of  pleasure."  "I  admit,"  re- 
turned Nelvil,  "  that  you  account  as  well  as 
possible  for  the  beauties  and  defects  of  your 
national  poetry  ;  but  when  these  faults,  with- 
out these  graces,  are  found  in  prose,  how  can 
you  defend  it  1  what  is  but  vague  in  the  one 
becomes  unmeaning  in  the  other.  The  crowd 
of  common  ideas,  that  your  poets  embellish 
by  melody  and  by  figures,  is  served  up  cold 
in  your  prose,  with  the  most  fatiguing  perti- 
nacity. The  greatest  portion  of  your  present 
prose  writers  use  a  language  so  declamatory, 
so  diffuse,  so  abounding  in  superlatives,  that 
one  would  think  they  all  dealt  out  the  same 
accepted  phrases  by  word  of  command,  or  by 
a  kind  of  convention.  Their  style  is  a  tissue, 
a  piece  of  mosaic.  They  possess  in  its  highest 
degree  the  art  of  inflating  an  idea,  or  frothing 
up  a  sentiment :  one  is  tempted  to  ask  them 
a  similar  question  to  that  put  by  the  negress 
to  the  Frenchwoman,  in  the  days  of  hoop- 
petticoats,  '  Pray,  madam,  is  all  that  yourself?' 
Now,  how  much  is  real  beneath  this  pomp  of 
words,  which  one  true  expression  mi-ght  dis- 
sipate like  an  idle  dream  ?"  "  You  forget," 
interrupted  Corinne,  "  first,  Machiavel  and 
Boccaccio,  then  Gravina,  Filangieri,  and 
even,  in  our  own  days,  Cesarotti,  "Verri,  Bet- 
tinelli,  and  many  others,  who  knew  both  how 
to  write  and  how  to  think.  (16)  I  agree  with 
you,  that,  for  the  last  century  or  two,  unhappy 
circumstances  having  deprived  Italy  of  her 
independence,  all  zeal  for  truth  has  been  so 
lost,  that  it  is  often  impossible  to  speak  it  in 
^ny  way.  The  result  is,  a  habit  of  resting 
content  with  words,  and  never  daring  to  ap- 
proach a  thought.  Authors,  too  sure  that  they 
can  effect  no  change  in  the  state  of  things, 
write  but  to  show  their  wit — the  surest  way 
of  soon  concluding  with  no  wit  at  all ;  for  it 
is  only  by  directing  our  efforts  to  a  nobly 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


51 


useful  aim  that  we  can  augment  our  stock  of 
ideas.  When  writers  can  do  nothing  for  the 
welfare  of, their  country;  when,  indeed,  their 
means  constitute  their  end,  from  leading  to  no 
better,  they  double  in  a  thousand  windings, 
without  advancing  one  step.  The  Italians 
are  afraid  of  new  ideas,  rather  because  they 
are  indolent  than  from  literary  servility.  By 
nature  they  have  much  originality  ;  but  they 
give  themselves  no  time  to  reflect.  Their 
eloquence,  so  vivid  in  conversation,  chills  as 
they  work  ;  besides  this,  the  Southerns  feel 
hampered  by  prose,  and  can  only  express 
themselves  fully  in  verse.  It  is  not  thus  with 
French  literature,"  added  Corinne  to  d'Er- 
feuil ;  "  your  prose  writers  are  often  more 
poetical  than  your  versifiers."  "That  is  a 
truth  established  by  classic  authorities,"  re- 
plied the  Count.  "  Bossuet,  La  Bruyere, 
Montesquieu,  and  Buffon,  can  never  be  sur- 
passed ;  especially  the  first  two,  who  belonged 
to  the  age  .of  Louis  XIV.  :  they  are  perfect 
models  for  all  to  imitate  who  can — a  hint  as 
important  to  foreigners  as  to  ourselves."  "  I 
can  hardly  think,"  returned  Corinne,  "  that  it 
were  desirable  for  distinct  countries  to  lose 
their  peculiarities ;  and  I  dare  to  tell  you, 
Count,  that  in  your  own  land,  the  national 
orthodoxy  which  opposes  all  felicitous  innova- 
tions must  render  your  literature  very  barren. 
Genius  is  essentially  creative  :  it  bears  the 
character  of  the  individual  who  possesses  it. 
Nature,  who  permits  no  two  leaves  to-be  ex- 
actly alike,  has  given  a  still  greater  diversity 
to  human  minds.  Imitation,  then,  is  a  double 
murder  ;  for  it  deprives  both  copy  and  original 
of  their  primitive  existence."  "  Would  you 
wish  us"  asked  d'Erfeuil,  "  to  admit  such 
Gothic  barbarisms  as  Young's  '  Night 
Thoughts,'  or  the  Spanish  and  Italian  Con- 
cetti ?  What  would  become  of  our  tasteful 
and  elegant  style  afte*  such  a  mixture  V  The 
Prince  of  Castel  Forte  now  remarked,  "  I  think 
that  we  are  all  in  want  of  each  other's  aid. 
The  literature  of  every  country  offers  a  new 
sphere  of  ideas  to  those  familiar  with  it. 
Charles  Y.  said,  '  The  man  who  understands 
four  languages  is  worth  four  men.'  What 
that  great  genius  applied  to  politics  is  as  true 
in  the  state  of  letters.  Most  foreigners  un- 
derstand French  ;  their  views,  therefore,  are 
more  extended  than  those  of  Frenchmen,  who 
know  no  language  but  their  own.  Why  do 
they  not  oftener  learn  other  tongues  T  They 
would  preserve  what  distinguishes  themselves, 
and  might  acquire  some  things  in  which  they 
are  still  wanting." 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  You  will  confess,  at  least,"  replied  the 
Count,  "that  there  is  one  department  in  which 
we  have  nothing  to  learn  from  any  one.  Our 
theatre  is  decidedly  the  first  in  Europe.  I 
cannot  suppose  that  the  English  themselves 
would  think  of  placing  their  Shakspeare  above 
us."  "  Pardon  me,  they  do  think  of  it,"  an- 
swered Mr.  Edgarmond  ;  and  having  said  this, 
resumed  his  previous  silence.  "  Oh !"  ex- 
claimed the  Count,  with  civil  contempt,  "  let 
every  man  think  as  he  pleases  ;  but  I  persist 
in  believing  that,  without  presumption,  we 
may  call  ourselves  the  highest  of  all  dramatic 
artists.  As  for  the  Italians,  if  I  may  speak 
frankly,  they  are  scarcely  aware  that  there  is 
such  an  art  in  the  world.  Music  is  everything 
with  them,  the  piece  nothing ;  if  a  second  act 
possesses  a  better  scena  than  a  first,  they  be- 
gin with  that ;  nay,  they  will  play  portions  of 
different  operas  on  the  same  night,  and  be- 
tween them  an  act  from  some  prose  comedy, 
containing  nothing  but  moral  sentences,  such 
as  our  ancestors  turned  over  to  the  use-  of 
other  countries,  as  worn 'too  threadbare  for 
their  own.  Your  famed  musicians  do  what 
they  will  with  your  poets.  One  won't  sing  a 
certain  air,  unless  tfee  word  Felicita  be  intro- 
duced ;  the  tenor  demands  his  Tomba ;  a  third 
can't  shake  unless  it  be  upon  Catene.  The 
poor  poet  must  do  his  best  to  harmonize  these 
varied,  tastes  with  his  dramatic  situations. 
Nor  is  this  the  worst :  some  of  them  will  not 
deign  to  walk  on  the  stage  ;  they  must  appear 
surrounded  by  clouds,  or  descend  from  the 
top  of  a  palace  staircase,  in  order  to  give  their 
entrance  due  effect.  Let  an  air  be  sung  in 
ever  so  tender  or  so  furious  a  passage,  the 
actor  must  needs  bow  his  thanks  for  the  ap- 
plause it  draws  down.  In  Semiramis,  the 
other  night,  the  spectre  of  Ninus  paid  his 
respects  to  the  pit  with  an  obsequiousness 
quite  neutralizing  the  awe  his  costume  should 
have  created. 

"  In  Italy,  the  theatre  is  looked  on  merely 
as  a  rendezvous,  where  you  need  listen  to 
nothing  but  the  songs  and  the  ballet.  I  may 
well  say  they  listen  to  the  ballet,  for  they  are 
never  quiet  till  after  its  commencement ;  in 
itself  it  is  the  chef-d'oeuvre  of  bad  taste ;  ex- 
cept its  grotesques,  who  are  true  caricaturists 
of  dancing,  I  know  not  what  there  is  to  amuse 
in  your  ballet  beyond  its  absurdity.  I  have 
seen  Gengis  Khan,  clothed  in  ermine  and 
magnanimity,  give  up  his  crown  to  the  child 
of  his  conquered  rival,  and  lift  him  into  the 
air  upon  his  foot — a  new  way  of  raising  a 
monarch  to  the  throne  ;  I  have  seen  the  self- 
devotion  of  Curtius,  in  three  acts,  full  of  di- 
vertisements — the  hero,  dressed  like  an  Ar- 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


cadian  shepherd,  had  a  long  dance  with  his 
mistress,  ere  he  mounted  a  real  horse  upon 
the  stage,  and  threw  himself  into  a  fiery  gulf, 
lined  with  orange,  satin,  and  gold  paper.  In 
fact,  I  have  seen  an  abridgment  of  the  Roman 
history,  turned  jnto  ballets,  from  Romulus 
down  ^Caesar." 

"  All  that  is  very  true,"  mildly  replied  the 
Prince  of  Castel  Forte  ;  "  but  you  speak  only 
of  our  Opera,  which  is  in  no  country  consid- 
ered the  dramatic  theatre."  "  Oh,  it  is  still 
worse  when  they  represent  tragedies,  or  dra- 
mas not  included  under  the  head  of  those 
with  happy  catastrophes  ;  they  crowd  more 
horrors  into  five  acts  than  human  imagination 
ever  conceived.  In  one  of  these  pieces  a 
lover  kills  his  mistress's  brother,  and  burns 
her  brains  before  the  audience.  The  fourth 
act  is  occupied  by  the  funeral,  and  ere  the 
fifth  begins,  the  lover,  with  the  utmost  com- 
posure, gives  out  the  next  night's  harlequin- 
ade ;  then  ^resumes  his  character,  in  order  to 
end  the  play  by  shooting  himself.  The  tra- 
gedians are  perfect  counterparts  of  the  cold 
exaggerations  ia  which  they  perform,  com- 
mitting the  greatest  atrocities  with  the  most 
exemplary  indifference.  If  an  actor  becomes 
impassioned,  he  is  called  a  preacher,  so  much 
more  emotion  is  betrayed  in  the  pulpit  than 
on  the  stage ;  and  it  is  lucky  that  these  he- 
roes are  so  peaceably  pathetic,  since,  as  there 
is  nothing  interesting  in  your  plays,  the  more 
fuss  they  made,  the  more  ridiculous  they 
would  become  :  i^  were  well  if  they '  were 
divertingly  so-,  but  it  is  all  too  monotonous 
to  laugh  at.  Italy  has  neither  tragedy  nor 
comedy  ;  the  only  drama  truly  her  own  is  the 
harlequinade.  A  thievish,  cowardly  glutton  ; 
an  amorous  or  avaricious  old  dupe  of  a  guar- 
dian are  the  materials.  You  will  own  that 
such  inventions  cost  no  very  great  efforts, 
and  that  the  '  Tartuffe'  and  the  '  Misanthrope' 
called  for  some  exertion  of  genius." 

This  attack  displeased  the  Italians,  though 
they  laughed  at  it.  In  conversation  the  Count 
preferred  displaying  his  wit  to  his  good-hu- 
mor. Natural  benevolence  prompted  •  his 
actions,  but  self-love  his  words.  Castel 
Forte  and  others  longed  to  refute  his  accusa- 
tions, but  they  thought  the  cause  would  be 
better  defended  by  Corinne  ;  and  as  they 
rarely  sought  to  shine  themselves^  they  were 
content,  after  citing  such  names  as  Maffei, 
Metastasio,  Goldoni,  Alfieri,  and  Monti,  with 
begging  her  to  answer  Monsieur  d'P^rfeuil. 
Corinne  agreed  with  him  that  Italy  had  no 
national  theatre ;  but  she  sought  to  prove 
that  circumstances,  and  not  want  of  talent, 
had  caused  this  deficiency.  "  Comedy,"  she 
said,  "  as  depending  on  observation  of  man- 
ners, can  only  exist  in  a  country  accustomed 


to  a  great  and  varied  population.  Italy  is 
animated  but  by  violent  passions  or  effeminate 
enjoyments.  Such  passio.is  give  birth  to 
crimes  that  confound  all  shades  of  character. 
But  the  ideal  comedy,  so  to  speak,  the  come- 
dy of  the  imagination,  which  suits  all  times, 
all  countries,  was  invented  here.  Harlequin, 
pantaloon,  and  clown  are  to  be  found  in  every 
piece  of  that  description.  Everywhere  they 
have  rather  masks  than  faces  ;  that  is,  they 
wear  the  physiognomy  of  their  class,  and  not 
of  individuals.  Doubtless  our  rnodern  au- 
thors found  these  parts  all  mada  to  their 
hands,  like  the  pawns  of  a  chess-board  ;  but 
these  fantastic  creations,  which,  from  one  end 
of  Europe  to  the  other,  still  amuse  not  only 
children,  but  men  whom  fancy  renders  child- 
ish, surely  give  the  Italians  some  claim  on  j 
the  art  of  comedy. 

"  Observation  of  the  human  heart  is  an  in- 
exhaustible source  of  literature  ;  but  nations 
rather  romantic*  than  reflective  yield  them- 
selves more  readily  to  the  delirium  of  joy 
than  to  philosophic  satire.  Something  of 
sadness  lurks  beneath  the  pleasantry  founded 
on  a  knowledge  of  mankind  ;  the  most  truly 
inoffensive  gaiety  is  that  which  is  purely  im- 
aginative. Not  that  Italians  do  not  shrewdly 
study  those  with  whom  they  are  concerned. 
They  detect  the  most  private  thoughts,  as 
subtly  as  others  ;  but  they  are  not  wont  to 
make  a  literary  use  of  the  acuteness  which 
marks  their  conduct.  Perhaps  they  are  re- 
luctant to  generalize  and  to  publish  J,heir  dis- 
coveries. Prudence  may  forbid  their  wasting 
on  mere  plays  what  may  serve  to  guide  their 
behavior,  or  converting  into  witty  fictions  j. 
that  which  they  find  so  useful  in  real  life.  1 1 
Nevertheless,  Machiavel,  who  has  made  | 
known  all  the  secrets  of  criminal  policy,  may 
serve  to  show  of  what  terrible  sagacity  the 
Italian  mind  is  capable.  ,  Goldoni,  who  lived 
in  Venice,  where  society  is  at  its  best,  intro- 
duced more  observation  into  his  works  than 
is  commonly  found.  Yet  his  numerous  come- 
dies want  variety  both  of  character  and  situa- 
tion. They  seem  modelled  not  on  life,  but  on 
the  generality1  of  theatrical  pieces.  Irony  is 
not  the  true  character  of  Italian  wit.  It  is 
Ariosto,  and  not  Moliere,  who  can  amuse  us 
here. 

"  Gozzi,  the  rival  of  Goldoni,  had  much 
more  irregular  originality.  He  gave  himself 
up  freely  to  his  genius  ;  mingling  buffoonery 
with  magic,  imitating  nothing  in  nature,  but 
dealing  with  those  fairy  chimeras  that  bear 
the  mind  beyond  the  boundaries  of  this  world. 
He  had  a  prodigious  success  in  his  day,  and 
perhaps  is  the  best  specimen  of  Italian  comic 
fancy  ;  but  to  ascertain  what  our  tragedy  and 
comedy  might  become,  they  must  be  allowed 


CORINNE  ,    OR,  ITALY. 


53 


a  theatre,  and  a  company.  A  host  of  small 
towns  dissipate  the  few  resources  that  might 
be  collected.  That  division  of  states,  usually 
so  favorable  to  public  welfare,  is  destructive 
of  it  here.  We  want  a  centre  of  light  and 
power,  to  pierce,  the  mists  of  surrounding 
prejudice.  The  authority  of  a  government 
would  be  a  blessing,  if  it  contended  with  the 
ignorance  of  men,  isolated  among  themselves, 
in  separate  provinces,  and,  by  awakening  em- 
ulation, gave  life  to  a  people  now  content  with 
a  dream." 

These  and  other  discussions  were  spiritedly 
put  forth  by  Corinne.  She  equally  understood 
the  art  of  that  light  and  rapid  style  of  con- 
versation, which  insists  on  nothing ;  and  ob- 
served that  thoughtfulness  which  gives  to 
each  a  consequence  in  his  turn,  though  she 
frequently  abandoned  herself  to  the  talent 
which  had  rendered  her  so  celebrated  as  an 
improvisatrice.  Often  did  she  call  on  Castel 
Forte  to  support  her  opinions  by  his  own  :  but 
she  spoke  so  well,  that  all  her  auditors  listened 
with  delight,  and  could  not  have  endured  an 
interruption.  Mr.  Edgarrnond,  above  all, 
could  never  have  wearied  of  seeing  and  hear- 
ing her;  he  hardly  dared  to  explain  to  himself 
the  admiration  she  excited  ;  and  whispered 
some  words  of  praise,  trusting  that  she  would 
understand,  without  obliging  him  to  repeat 
them.  He  felt,  however,  so  anxious  to  hear 
her  sentiments  on  tragedy,  that,  in  spite  of 
his  timidity,  he  risked  the  question.  "  Ma- 
dame," he  said,  "  it  appears  to  me  that  trage- 
dies are  what  your  literature  wants  most.  I 
think  that  yours  come  less  near  an  equality 
with  our  own,  than  children  do  to  men  :  for 
childish  sensibility,  if  light,  is  genuine  ;  while 
your  serious  dramas  are  so  stilted  and  un- 
natural, that  they  stifle  all  emotion.  Am  I 
not  right,  my  lord  1"  he  added,  turning  his 
eyes  towards  Nelvil,  with  an  appeal  for  assist- 
ance, and  astonished  at  himself  for  having 
dared  to  say  so  much  before  so  large  a  party. 
"  I  think  just  as  you  do,"  returned  Oswald  : 
"  Metastasio,  whom  they  vaunt  as  the  bard  of 
love,  gives  that  passion  the  same  coloring  in 
all  countries  and  situations.  His  songs,  in- 
deed, abound  with  grace,  harmony,  and  lyric 
beauty,  especially  when  detached  from  the 
dramas  to  which  they  belong  ;  but  it  is  im- 
possible for  us,  whose  Shakspeare  is  indispu- 
tably the  poet  *ho  has  most  profoundly  fa- 
thomed the  dop!h  of  human  passions,  to  bear, 
with  the  fond  pairs  who  fill  nearly  all  the 
scenes  of  Metastasio,  and,  whether  called 
Achilles  or  Thyrsis,  Brutus  or  Corilas,  all 
sing  in  the  same  strain,  the  martyrdom  they 
endure,  and  depict,  as  a  species  of  insipid 
idiotcy,  the  most  stormy  impulse  that  can 
wreck  the  heart  of  man.  It  is  with  real  re- 


spect for  Alfieri  that  I  venture  a  few  com- 
ments on  his  works,  their  aim  is  so  noble ! 
The  sentiments  of  the  author  so  well  accord 
with  the  life  of  the  man.  that  his  tragedies 
ought  always  to  be  praised  as  so  many  great 
actions,  even  though  they  may  be  criticised 
in  a  literary  sense.  It  strikes  rne,  that  some 
of  them  have  a  monotony  in  their  vigor,  as 
Metastasio's  have  in  their  sweetness.  Alfieri 
gives  us  such  a  profusion  of  energy  and  worth, 
or  such  an  exaggeration  of  violence  and  guilt, 
that  it  is  impossible  to  recognize  one  human 
being  among  his  heroes.  Men  are  never 
either  so  vile  or  so  generous  as  he  describes 
them.  The  object  is  to  contrast  vice  with 
virtue ;  but  these  contrasts  lack  the  grada- 
tions of  truth.  If  tyrants  were  obliged  to  put 
up  with  half  he  makes  their  victims  say  to 
their  faces,  one  would  really  feel  tempted  to 
pity.  them.  In  the  tragedy  of  '  Octavia,'  this 
outrage  of  probability  is  most  apparent.  Sen- 
eca lectures  Nero,  as  if  the  one  were  the 
bravest,  and  the  other  the  most  patient  of  men. 
The  master  of  the  world  allows  himself  to 
be  insulted,  and  put  in  a  rage,  scene  after 
scene,  as  if  it  were  not  in  his  own  power  to  end 
all  this  by  a  single  word.  It  is  certain,  that 
in  these  continual  dialogues,  Seneca  utters 
maxims  which  one  might  pride  to  hear  in  a  j 
harangue  or  read  in  a  dissertation  ;  but  is  this  ! 
the  way  to  give  an  idea  of  tyranny  1 — instead  | 
of  investing  it  with  terror,  to  set  it  up  as  a  | 
block  against  which  to  tilt  with  wordy  wea-  ' 
pons !  Had  Shakspeare  represented  Nero 
surrounded  by  trembling  slaves,  who  scarce 
dare  answer  the  most  indifferent  question, 
himself  vainly  endeavoring  to  appear  at  ease, 
and  Seneca  at  his  side,  composing  the  apolo- 
gy for  Agrippina's  murder,  would  not  our  hor- 
ror have  been  a  thousand  times  more  great  1  \ 
and,  for  one  reflection  made  by  the  author, 
would  not  millions  have  arisen,  in  the  specta-  ' 
tor's  mind,  from  the  silent  rhetoric  of  so  true 
a  picture  ?" 

Oswald  might   have  spoken  much -longer 
ere  Corinne  would  have  interrupted  him,  so 
fascinated  was  she  by -the  sound  of  his  voice, 
and    the    noble    grace    of   his   expressions. 
Scarce  could  she  remove  her  gaze  from  his 
countenance,  even  when  he  ceased  to  speak  ; 
then,  as  her  friends  eagerly  asked  what  she  | 
thought  of  Italian  tragedy,  she  answered  by 
addressing  herself  to  Nelvil.     "  My  lord,  I 
so  entirely  agree  with  you,  that  it  is  not  as  a 
disputant  "l  reply ;  but  to  make  some  excep- 
tions to  your,  perhaps,-  too  general  rules.     It  j 
is  true  that  Metastasio  is  rather  a  lyric  than  a  ; 
dramatic  poet ;  and  that  he  depicts  love  rather  | 
as  one  of  the  fine  arts  that  embellish  life,  than 
as  the  secret  source  of  our  deepest  joys  and 
sorrows.     Although    our    poetry    has    been 


54 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


chiefly  devoted  to  love,  I  will  hazard  the  as- 
sertion that  we  have  more  truth  and  power  in 
our  portraitures  of  every  other  passion.  For 
amatory  themes,  a  kind  of  conventional  style 
has  been  formed  amongst  us  ;  and  poets  are 
inspired  by  what  they  have  read,  not  by  their 
own  feelings.  Love,  as  it  is  in  Italy,  bears 
not  the  slightest  resemblance  to  love  such  as 
our  authors  describe.  I  know  but  one  ro- 
mance, the  '  Fiemmetta '  of  Boccacio,  in 
which  the  passion  is  attired  in  its  truly  na- 
tional colors.  Our  poets  subtilize  and  exag- 
gerate the  sentiment,  but  Italian  love  is  a  deep 
and  rapid  impression,  more  frequently  betray- 
ed by  silent  and  passionate  actions,  than  by 
ingenious  and  highly-wrought  language.'  Our 
literature,  in  general,  bears  but  a  faint  stamp 
of  our  manners.  We  are  too  humbly  modest 
to  found  tragedies  on  our  own  history,  or  fill 
them  with  our  own  emotions.  (17) 

"  Alfieri,  by  a  singular  chance,  was,  it  might 
be  said,  transplanted  from  antiquity  into  mod- 
ern times.  He  was  born  for  action  ;  yet  per- 
mitted but  to  write  :  his  style  resented  -this 
restraint.  He  wished  by  a  literary  road  to 
reach  a  political  goal ;  a  noble  one,  but  such 
as  spoils  all  works  of  fancy.  He  was  impa- 
tient of  living  among  learned  writers  and  en- 
lightened readers,  who,  nevertheless,  cared 
for  nothing  serious ;  but  amused  themselves 
with  madrigals  and  novellettes.  Alfieri 
sought  to  give  his  tragedies  a  more  austere 
character.  He  retrenched  everything  that 
could  interfere  with  the  interest  of  his  dia- 
logue ;  as  if  determined  to  make  his  country- 
men do  penance  for  their  natural  vivacity. 
Yet  he  was  much  admired  ;  because  he  was 
truly  great,  and  because  the  inhabitants  of 
Rome  applaud  all  praise  bestowed  on  the  an- 
cient Romans,  as  if  it  belonged  to  themselves. 
They  are  amateurs  of  virtue,  as  of  the  pic- 
tures their  galleries  possess ;  but  Alfieri  has 
not  created  anything  that  may  be  called  the 
Italian  drama ;  that  is,  a  school  of  tragedy, 
in  which  a  merit  peculiar  to  Italy  may  be 
found.  He  has  not  even  characterized  the 
manners  of  the  times  and  countries  he  select- 
ed. His  '  Pazzi,'  '  Virginia,'  and  '  Philip  II.' 
are  replete  with  powerful  and  elevated 
thought ;  but  you  everywhere  find  the  impress 
of  Alfieri,  not  that  of  the  scene  nor  of  the 
period  assumed.  Widely  as  he  differs  from 
all  French  authors  in  most  respects,  he  re- 
sembles them  in  the  habit  of  painting  every 
subject  he  touches  with  the  hues  of  his  own 
mind." 

At  this  allusion  d'Erfeuil  observed  :  "  It 
would  be  impossible  for  us  to  brook  or.  our 
stage  either  the  insignificance  of  the  Gre- 
cians, or  the  monstrosities  of  Shakspeare. 
The  French  have  too  much  taste.  Our 


drama  stands  alone  for  elegance  and  deli- 
cacy :  to  introduce  anything  foreign,  were 
to  plunge  us  into  barbarism."  "  You  would 
as  soon  think  of  surrounding  France  with 
the  great  wall  of  China !"  said  Corinne, 
smiling  :  "  yet  the  rare  beauties  of  your 
tragic  authors  would  be  better  developed,  if 
you  would  sometimes  permit  others  besides 
Frenchmen  to  appear  in  their  scenes.  But 
we,  poor  Italians,  would  lose  much,  b'y  con- 
fining ourselves  to  rules  that  must  confer 
on  us  less  honor  than  constraint.  The  na- 
tional character  ought  to  form  the  national 
theatre.  We  love  the  fine  arts,  music, 
scenery,  even  pantomime  ;  all,  in  fact,  that 
strikes  our  senses.  How,  then,  can  a  dra- 
ma, of  which  eloquence  is  the  best  charm, 
content  us  ?  In  vain  did  Alfieri.  strive  to  re- 
duce us  to  this  ;  he  himself  felt  that  his  sys- 
tem was  too  rigorous.  (18)  His  '  Saul,' 
Maffei's  '  Merope,'  Monti's  '  Aristodemus,' 
above  all,  the  poetry  of  Dante  (though  he 
never  wrote  a  tragedy),  seem  to  give  the  best 
notion  of  what  the  dramatic  art  might  become 
here.  In  '  Merope '  the  action  is  simple,  but 
the  language  glorious  ;  why  should  such  style 
be  interdicted  in  our  plays  1  Verse  becomes 
so  magnificent  in  Italian,  that  we  ought  to  be 
the  last  people  to  renounce  its  beauty.  Al- 
fieri, who,  when  he  pleased,  could  excel  in 
every  way,  has  in  his  '  Saul '  made  superb 
use  of  lyric  poetry  ;  and,  indeed,  music  itself 
might  there  be  very  happily  introduced  ;  not 
to  interrupt  the  dialogue,  but  to  calm  the  fury 
of  the  king,  by  the  harp  of  David.  We  pos- 
sess such  delicious  music,  as  may  well  ine- 
briate all  mental  power  ;  we  ought,  therefore, 
instead  of  separating,  to  unite  these  attributes  ; 
not  by  making  the  heroes  sing,  which  destroys 
their  dignity,  but  by  choruses,  like  those  of 
the  ancients,  connected  by  natural  links  with 
the  main  situation,  as  often  happens  in  real 
life.  Far  from  rendering  the  Italian  drama 
less  imaginative,  I  think  we  ought  in  every 
way  to  increase  the  illusive  pleasure  of  the 
audience.  Our  lively  taste  for  musip,  ballet, 
and  spectacle,  is  a  proof  of  powerful  fancy, 
and  a  necessity  to  interest  it  incessantly,  even 
by  thus  sporting  with  serious  images,  instead 
of  rendering  them  more  severe  than  they 
need  be,  as  did  Alfieri. 

"  We  think  it  our  duty  to  applaud  whatever 
is  grave  and  majestic,  but  soon  return  to  our 
natural  tastes ;  and  are  satisfied  with  any 
tragedy,  so  it  be  embellished  by  that  variety 
which  the  English  and  Spaniards  so  highly 
appreciate.  Monti's  '  Aristodemus'  partakes 
the  terrible  pathos  of  Dante  ;  and  has  surely 
a  just  title  to  our  pride.  Dante,  so  versatile 
a  master-spirit,  possessed  a  tragic  genius, 
which  would  have  produced  a  grand  effect,  if 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


55 


he  could  have  adapted  it  to  the  stage :  he 
kne.w  how  to  set  before  the  eye  whatever 
passed  in  the  soul ;  he  made  us  not  only  feel 
but  look  upon  despair.  Had  he  written  plays, 
they  must  have  affected  young  and  old,  the 
many  as  well  as  the  few.  Dramatic  literature 
must  be  in  some  way  popular;  it  is  like  a 
public  event,  a  whole  nation  constitutes  its 
judges." 

"  Since  the  time  of  Dante,"  said  Oswald, 
"  Italy  has  played  a  great  political  part — ere 
it  can  boast  a  national  tragic  school,  great 
events  must  call  forth,  in  real  life,  the  jemo- 
tions  which  become  the  stage.  Of  all  literary 
chefs-cTceuvres  a  tragedy  most  thoroughly  be- 
longs to  a  whole  people  :  the  author's  genius 
is  matured  by  the  public  spirit  of  his  audience ; 
by  the  government  and  manners  of  his  coun- 
try ;  by  all,  in  fact,  which  recurs  each  day  to 
the  mind,  forming  the  moral  being,  even  as 
the  air  we  breathe  invigorates  our  physical 
life.  The  Spaniards,  whom  you  resemble  in 
climate  and  in  creed,  have,  nevertheless,  far 
more  dramatic  talent.  Their  pieces  are 
drawn  from  their  history,  their  chivalry,  and 
religious  faith :  they  are  original  and  animated. 
Their  success  in  this  way  may  restore  them 
to  their  former  fame  as  a  nation  ;  but  how  can 
we  found  in  Itaky  a  style  of  tragedy  which 
she  has  never  possessed  !"  "  I  have  better 
hopes,  my  lord,"  returned  Corinne,  "  from  the 
soaring  spirits  that  are  amongst  us,  though 
unfavored  as  yet  by  circumstances  ;  but  what 
we  most  need  is  histrionic  ability.  Affected 
language  induces  false  declamation ;  yet  there 
is  no  tongue  in  which  a  great  actor  could 
evince  more  potency  than  in  our  own ;  for 
melodious  sounds  lend  an  added  charm  to  just 
accentuation,  without  robbing  ft  of  its  force." 
"If  you  would  convince  us  of  this,"  inter- 
rupt^d  Castel  Forte,  "  do  so,  by  giving  us  the 
inexpressible  pleasure  of  seeing  you  in  trage- 
dy :  you  surely  consider  your  foreign  friends 
worthy  of  witnessing  the  talent  which  you 
monopolize  in  Italy ;  and  in  which  (as  your 
own  soul  is  peculiarly  expressed  in  it),  you 
can  have  no  superior  on  earth." 

Corinne  secretly.desired  to  perform  in  tra- 
gedy before  Oswald,  and  thus  appear  to  the 
best  advantage  ;  but  she  could  not  consent 
without  his  approval :  her  looks  requested  it. 
He  understood  them  ;  and,  ambitious  that  she 
should  charm  Mr.  Edgarmond  in  a  manner 
which  her  yesterday's  timidity  had  prevented, 
he  joined  his  solicitations  to  those  of  her  other 
guests.  She  hesitated  no  longer.  • "  Well, 
then,"  she  said  to  Castel  Forte,  "  we  will,  if 
you  please,  accomplish  a  long-formed  scheme 
of  mine,  that  of  playing  my  translation  of 
'  Romeo  and  Juliet.'  "  "  What !"  exclaimed 
Edgarmond,  "do  you  understand  English,  and 


love  Shakspeare  V  "  As  a  friend,"  she  re- 
plied. *"  And  you  will  play  Juliet  in  Italian  ? 
and  I  shall  hear  you  ]  and  you,  too,  dear  Nel- 
vil !  How  happy  you  will  be  !"  Then,  in- 
stantly repenting  his  indiscretion,  he  blushed 
The  blush  of  delicacy  and  kindness  is  at  all 
ages  interesting.  "  How  happy  we  shall  be," 
he  added,  with  embarrassment,  "  if  we  may 
be  present  at  such  a  mental  banquet !" 


CHAPTER  III. 

ALL  was  arranged  in  a  few  days;  parts 
distributed,  the  night  fixed  on,  and  the  palace 
of  a  relative  of  Prince  Castel  Forte  selected 
for  the  representation.  'Oswald  felt  at  once 
disquiet  and  delight ;  he  enjoyed  Corinne's 
success,  by  anticipation  ;  but  even  thus  grew 
jealous,  beforehand,  of  no  one  man  in  particu- 
lar, but  of  the  public,  who  would  witness  an 
excellence  of  which  he  felt  as  if  he  alone  had 
a  right  to  be  aware.  He  would  have  had 
Corinne  reserve  her  charms  for  him,  and  ap- 
pear to  others  as  timid  as  an  Englishwoman. 
However  distinguished  a  man  may  be,  he 
rarely  feels  unqualified  pleasure  in  the  supe- 
riority of  a  woman.  If  he  does  not  love  her, 
his  self-esteem  takes  offence  ;  if  he  does,  his 
heart  is  alarmed  by  it.  Beside  Corinne,  Os- 
wald was  rather  intoxicated  than  happy  ;  the 
admiration  she  excited  increased  his  passion, 
without  giving  stability  to  his  intents.  She 
was  a  phenomenon  every  day  new ;  but  the 
very  wonder  she  inspired  seemed  to  lessen  his 
hopes  of  domestic  tranquillity.  She  was, 
notwithstanding,  so  gentle,  so  easy  to  live 
with,  that  she  might  have  been  beloved  for 
her  common  qualities,  independent  of  those 
more  brilliant.  Lord  Nelvil,  with  all  his  ad- 
vantages, thought  himself  so  much  her  inferior 
that  he  doubted  the  duration  of  their  attach- 
ment. In  vain  did  she  make  herself  his  slave ; 
the  conqueror  was  too  much  in  awe  of  his 
captive  to  enjoy  his  realm  in  peace. 

Some  hours  before  the  performance,  Nelvil 
led  her  to  the  house  of  the  Princess,  where 
the  theatre  had  been  fitted  up.  The  sun  shone 
beautifully ;  and  at  one  of  the  staircase  win- 
dows, which  commanded  a  view  of  Rome  and 
the  Campagna,  he  paused  a  moment,  saying, 
"  Behold,  this  fine  sky — it  is  to  light  you  to 
victory  !"  "  Ah,  if  it  were  so,"  she  replied, 
"it  is  to  you  that  I  owe  such  protection." 
"  Tell  me,"  he  added,  "  do  the  pure  emotions 
kindled  by  the  swee.tness  of  nature  suffice  to 


56 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


please  you  1  Remember,  this  is  a  ver,y  diffe- 
rent pleasure  from  that  you  will  enjoy  in  the 
tumultuous  hall  which  soon  will  re-echo  your 
name."  "Oswald,"  she  said,  "  if  I  obtain 
applause,  will  it  not  be  because  you  hear  it 
that  it  will  touch  my  heart  ?  If  I  display  any 
talent,  is  it  not  my  love  for  you  that  inspires 
me  ?  Poetry,  religion,  ali  enthusiastic  feel- 
ings, are  in  harmony  with  nature  ;  and  while 
gazing  on  the  azure  sky,  while  yielding  to  the 
reverie  it  creates,  I  understand  better  than 
ever  the  sentiments  of  Juliet,  I  become  more 
worthy  of  Romeo."  "  Yes,  thou  art  worthy 
of  him,  celestial  creature!"  thought  Nelvif; 
"  this  jealous  wish  to  be  alone  with  thee  in  the 
universe,  is,  I  own,  a  weakness.  Go !  receive 
the  homage  of  the  world !  but  be  thy  love, 
which  is  more  divine  even  than  thy  genius, 
directed  to  none  but  me  !"  They  parted,  and 
Oswald  took  his  place,  awaiting  her  appear- 
ance on  the  stage. 

Romeo  and  Juliet  is  an  Italian  story  ;  the 
scene  was  at  Verona,  and  the  tomb  of  the  two 
lovers  is  still  shown  there.  Shakspeare  has 
written  this  play  with  a  truly  southern  imagi- 
nation, at  once  impassioned  and  vivacious  ;. 
triumphant  in  delight,  and  yet  rushing  from 
voluptuous  felicity  to  despair  and  death.  Its 
sudden  love,  we  feel,  from  the  first,  will  never 
be  effaced  ;  for  the  force  of  nature,  beneath  a 
burning  clime,  and  not  habitual  fickleness, 
gives  it  birth.  The  soil  is  not  light,  though 
the  vegetation  be  rapid ;  and  Shakspeare, 
better  than  any  other  foreign  poet,  knew  how 
to  seize  the  national  character  of  Italy  ;  that 
fertility  of  mind  which  invents  a  thousand 
varied  expressions  for  the  same  emotion  ;  that 
Oriental  eloquence  which  borrows  images 
from  all  nature,  to  clothe  the  sensations  of 
young  hearts.  In  Ossian  one  chord  constantly 
replies  to  the  thrill  of  sensibility ;  but  in 
Shakspeare  nothing  is  cold  nor  same.  A 
sunbeam,  divided  and  reflected  in  a  thousand 
varied  ways,  produces  endlessly  multiplied 
tints,  all  telling  of  the  light  and  heat  from 
whence  they  are  derived.  Thus  "  Romeo  and 
Juliet,"  translated  into  Italian,  seems  but  re- 
suming its  own  mother-tongue. 

The  first  meeting  of  the  lovers  is  at  a  ball 
given  by  the  Capulets,  mortal  enemies  of  the 
Montagues.  Corinne  was  charmingly  attired, 
her  tresses  mixed  with  gems  and  flowers  ;  and 
at  first  sight  scarce  appeared  herself:  her 
voice,  however,  was  soon  recognized,  as  was 
her  face,  though  now  almost  deified  by  poetic 
fir*.  Unanimous  applause  rang  through  the 
house  as  she  appeared  Her  first  look  dis- 
covered Oswald,  and  rested  on  him,  sparkling 
with  hope  and  love.  The  gazers'  hearts  beat 
with  rapture  and  with  fear,  as  if  beholding 
happiness  too  great  to  last  on  earth.  But  was 


it  for  Corinne  to  realize  such  a  presentiment  t 
When  Romeo  drew  near,  to  whisper  his  ho- 
mage to  her  grace  and  beauty,  in  lines  so 
glowing  in  English,  so  magnificent  in  Italian, 
the  spectators,~transported  at  having  their  own 
feelings  thus  interpreted,  fully  entered  into  the 
passion  whose  rapid  dawn  appeared  more  than 
excusable.  Oswald  became  all  uneasiness  ;  he 
felt  as  if  every  man  was  ready  to  proclaim  her 
an  angel  among  women,  to  challenge  him  on 
what  he  felt  for  her,  to  dispute  his  rights,  and 
tear  her  from  his  arms.  A  dazzling  cloud 
passed  before  his  eyes ;  he  feared  that  he 
should  faint,  and  concealed  himself  behind  a 
pillar.  Corinne's  eyes  anxiously  sought  him, 
and  with  so  deep  a  tone  did  she  pronounce 

"  Too  early  seen  unknown,  and  known  too  late !" 

that  he  trembled  as  if  she  applied  these  words 
to  their  personal  situation.  There  were  no 
bounds  to  his  admiration  of  her  dignified  and 
natural  gestures,  her  countenance  which  spoke 
more  than  words  could  tell,  those  mysteries  of 
the  heart  which  must  ever  remain  inexplica- 
ble, and  yet  for  ever  decide  our  fate.  The 
accents,  the  looks,  the  least  movements  of  a 
truly  sensitive  actor,  reveal  the  depths  of  the 
human  breast.  The  ideal  of  the  fine  arts  al- 
ways mingles  with  these  revelations  ;  the  har- 
mony of  verse  and  the  charm  of  attitude  lend- 
ing to  passion  the  grace  and  majesty  it  so  often 
wants  in  real  life — it  is  here  seen  through  the 
medium  of  imagination,  without  losing  aught 
of  its  truth. 

In  the  second  act,  Juliet  has  an  interview 
with  Romeo  from  a  balcony  in  her  garden.  Of 
all  Corinne's  ornaments,  none  but  the  flowers 
were  left ;  and  even  they  were  soon  to  disap- 
pear ;  the  theatre  was  faintly  illumined  in  imi- 
tation of  moonlight,  and  the  countenance  of 
Corinne  was  veiled  in  tender  gloom.  Her 
voice  sounded  still  more  sweetly  than  it  had 
done  amid  the  splendors  of  the  fete.  Her 
hand,  raised  towards  the  stars,  seemed  invok- 
ing them,  as  alone  worthy  of  her  confidence  ; 
and  when  she  repeated,  "  Oh,  Romeo,  Romeo !" 
certain  as  Oswald  felt  thar  it  was  of  him  she 
thought,  he  was  jealous  that  any  other  name 
than  his  own  should  be  breathed  by  tones  so 
delicious.  She  sat  in  front  of  the  balcony ; 
the  actor  who  played  Romeo  was  somewhat  in 
the  shade  :  all  the  glances  of  Corinne  fell  on 
her  beloved,  as  she  spoke  those  entrancing 
lines  : — 
"  In  truth,  fair  Montngue  !  I  am  too  fond, 

An?,  therefore  thou  may'st  think  my  'harior  light; 

Bu     .list  me,  gentleman,  I'll  prove  more  true 

Than  those  who  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange." 

"Therefore — pardon  me  !" 
At  those  words,  "  Pardon  me  !"  for  loving. 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


57 


for  having  allowed  thee  to  know  it, — so  tender 
an  appeal  filled  the  eyes  of  Corinne,  such  re- 
spect for  her  lover,  such  pride  in  her  choice 
wlien  she  said,  noble  Romeo  !  fair  Montague  ! 
that  Oswald  raised  his  head,  and  believed  him- 
self the  monarch  of  the  world,  since  he  reigned 
over  a  heart  enclosing  all  the  treasures  of  love 
and  life 

Corinne,  perceiving  this  effect,  became 
doubly  animated  by  that  enthusiasm  of  the 
heart  which,  of  itself,  can  work  such  mira- 
cles ;  and  when,  at  the  approach  of  day,  Ju- 
liet fancies  that  she  hears  the  lark,  the  signal 
for  Romeo's  departure,  the  accents  of  Corinne 
acquired  a  super-human  power ;  they  told  of 
IOTB,  indeed,  but  a  religious  mystery  was  now 
mingled  with  it ; — recollections  of  heaven — a 
presage  of  returning  thither — the  celestial  grief 
of  a  soul  exiled  on  earth,  and  soon  to  be  re- 
claimed by  its  diviner  home.  Ah,  how  happy 
was  Corinne,  while  playing  this  noble  part 
before  the  lover  of  her  choice  !  How  few 
lives  can  bear  a  comparison  with  one  such 
night !  Had  Oswald  himself  been  the  Romeo, 
her  pleasure  could  not  have  been  so  complete. 
She  would  have  longed  to  break  through  the 
greatest  poet's  verse,  and  speak  after  her  own 
heart ;  or  perhaps  the  diffidence  of  love  would 
have  enchained  her  genius  ;  truth  carried  to 
such  a  height  would  have  destroyed  illusion  ; 
but  how  sweet  was  the  consciousness  of  his 
presence,  while  she  was  influenced  by  the 
exalted  impulses  which  poetry  alone  can  awak- 
en, giving  us  all  the  excitement,  without  the 
anguish,  of  reality ;  while  the  affections  she 
portrayed  were  .neither  wholly  personal  nor 
entirely  abstract,  hut  seemed  saying  to  her 
Oswald,  "  Behold,-  how  capable  I  am  of  lov- 
ing !"  It  was  impossible  for  her  to  be  per- 
fectly at  ease  in  her  own  situation.  Passion 
and  modesty  alternately  impelled  and  restrain- 
ed her,  now  piquing  herfpride,  Jjpw  enforcing 
its  submission  ;  but  thus  to  display  her  perfec- 
tions without  arrogance,  to  unite  sensibility 
with  the  calm  it  so  often  disturbs ;  to  live  a 
moment  in  the  sweetest  dreams  of  the  heart ; 
such  was  the  pure  delight  of  Corinne  while 
acting  Juliet.  To  this  was  united  all  her 
pleasure  in  the  applause  she  won  ;  and  her 
looks  seemed  to  lay  her  success  at  the  feet  of 
him  whose  acceptance  was  worth  all  fame, 
and  who  preferred  her  glory  to  his  own.  Yes, 
for  that  hour,  Corinne,  thou  wert  enviable  ! 
tasting,  at.  the  price  of  thy  repose,  the  ecsta- 
sies for  which,  till  then,  thou  hadst  vainly 
sighed,  and  must  henceforth  for  ever  deplore. 

Juliet  secretly  becomes  the  wife  of  Romeo. 
Her  parents  command  her  to  espouse  another, 
and  she  obtains  from  a  friar  a  sleeping-draught, 
which  gives  her  the  appearance  of  death.  Co- 
rir.ne's  trembling  step  and  altered  voice  ;  her 


looks,  now  wild,  now  dejected,  betrayed  the 
struggles  of  love  and  fear  ;  the  terrible  image 
of  being  borne  alive  to  the  tomb  of  her  ances- 
tors, and  the  brave  fidelity  which  bade,  her 
young  soul  triumph  over  so  natural  a  dread. 
Once  she  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven,  with  an 
ardent  petition  for  that  aid  with  which  no  hu- 
man being  can  dispense  ;  at  another  time  Os- 
wald fancied  thart  she  spread  her  arms  towards 
him  :  he  longed  to  fly  to  her  aid  ;  he  rose  in 
a  kind  of  delirium,  then  sunk  on  his  seat,  re- 
called to  himself  by  the  surprise  of  those 
around  him  ;  but  his  agitation  was  too  strong 
to  be  concealed. 

In  the  fifth  act,  Romeo,  believing  Juliet 
dead,  bears  her  from  the  tomb.  Corinne  was 
clad  in  white,  her  black  locks  dishevelled,  her 
head  gracefully  resting  on  his  bosom  ;  but  with 
an  air  of  death  so  sadly  true,  that  Oswald's 
heart  was  torn  by  contending  sensations.  He 
could  not  bear  to  see  her  in  another's  embrace  ; 
he  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  her  inanimate 
beauty,  and  fell,  like  Romeo,  that  cruel  union 
of  despair  and  love,  voluptuousness  and  death, 
which  renders  this  scene  the  most  heart-rend- 
ing on  the  stage.  At  last,  when  Juliet  wakes 
in  the  grave,  beside  which  her  lover  has  just 
sacrificed  himself,  her  first  words  beneath 
those  funeral  vaults,  partake  not  of  the  fear 
they  might  occasion,  but  she  cries, 

"  Where  is  my  lord ?  where  is  my  Romeo  1" 

Nelvil  replied  by  a  deep  groan  ;  and  was  hur- 
ried by  Mr.  Edgarmond  out  of  the  theatre. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  piece,  Corinne  was 
overpowered  by  fatigue  and  excitement.  Os- 
wald was  the  first  to  seek  her  room,  where, 
still  in  the  shroud  of  Juliet,  she  lay  half- 
swooning  in  the  arms  of  her  women.  In  the 
excess  of  his  dismay,  he  could  no  longer  dis- 
tinguish fiction  from  reality ;  but,  throwing 
himself  at  her  feet,  exclaimed,  in  the  words  of 
Romeo, 

"Eyes,  look  your  last!  Anns,  take  your  last  embrace  !" 

Corinne, .  whose  Senses  still  wandered, 
shrieked,  "  Great  God !  what  say  you  ? 
Would  you  leave  me '?"  "  No,  no,  I  swear  !" 
he  cried.  At  that  instant  a  crowd  of  admiring 
friends  broke  in  upon  them  ;  she  anxiously  de- 
sire3  to  hear  what  he  had  meant  to  say,  but 
they  were  not  left  alone  together  for  an  in- 
stant, and  could  not  speak  to  each  other  again 
that  evening. 

Never  had  any  drama  produced  such  an  ef- 
fect in  Italy.  The  Romans  extolled  the  piece, 
the  translation,  and  the  actress  ;  asserting  that 
this  was  the  tragedy  which  represented  them 
to  the  life,  and  gave  an  added  value  to  their 


58 


CORINNE  ;  OR.  ITALY. 


language,  by  eloquence  at  once  inspired  and 
natural.  Corinne  received  all  these  eulogiums 
with  gracious  sweetness ;  but  her  soul  hung 


on  these  brief  words,  "  I  swear  !"  believing 
that  they  contained  the  secret  of  her  destiny. 


BOOK      VIII. 

THE       STATUES       AND       PICTURES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

AFTER  such  an  evening,  Oswald  could  not 
close  his  eyes  all  night.  He  had  never  been 
so  near  sacrificing  everything  to  Corinne. 
He  wished  not  even  to  learn  her  seqret,  until 
he  had  solemnly  consecrated  his  life  to  her ; 
all  indecision  seemed  banished,  as  he  mentally 
composed  the  letter  which  he  intended  to 
write  the  next  morning ;  but  this  resolved  and 
happy  confidence  was  not  of  long  duration. 
His  thoughts  again  strayed  towards  the  past, 
reminding  him  that  he  had  loved  before  ;  and 
though  far  less  than  he  adored  Corinne,  nay, 
an  object  not  to  be  compared  with  her,  yet  it 
was  this  passion  that  had  hurried  him  into 
rashness  that  had  broken  his  father's  heart. 

How  know  I,"  he  cried,  "  that  he  does  not 


susceptible  alike  of  passion  and  of  conscience  ! 
He  paced  his  chamber  in  cruel  agitation ; 
sometimes  pausing  to  gaze  on  the  soft  and 
lovely  moonlight  of  Italy.  Nature's  fair  smile 
may  render  us  resigned  to  everything:  but 
suspense.  Day  rose — and  when  d'Erfeuil  and 
Edgarmond  entered  his  room,  so  much  had 
one  night  changed  him,  that  both  were  alarmed 
for  his  health.  The  Count  first  broke  silence. 
"  I  must  confess,"  he  said,  "  that  I  was  charm- 
ed last  evening.  What  a  pity  that  such  capa- 
bilities should  be  lost  in  a  woman  of  fortune  ! 
Were  Corinne  but  poor,  free  as  she  is,  she 
might  take  to  the  stage,  and  be  the  glory  of 
Italy."  Oswald  was  grieved  by  this  speech, 
yet  knew  not  how  to  show  it ;  for  such  was 
d'Erfeuil's  peculiarity,  that  one  could  not 
legitimately  object  to  aught  he  said,  however 

It  is 


once  more  fear  his  son  may  forget  his  duty  to  I  great  the  pain  and  anger  he  awakened. 

his  native  land "?     Oh  thou,  the  best  friend  I  j  only  for  feeling  hearts  to  practise  reciprocal 

shall  ever  know  on  earth  !"  he  continued,  ad-  indulgence.     Self-love,  so  sensitive  in  its  own 


dressing  the  miniature  of  his  parent,  "  I  can 
no  longer  hear  thy  voice,  yet  teach  me  by  that 
silent  look,  still — still  so  powerful  over  me, 
how  I  should  act,  that  thou  mayest  gaze  from 
heaven  with  some  satisfaction  on  thy  son. 
Yet,  yet  remember  the  thirst  for  happiness 


cause,  has  rarely  any  sympathy  to  spare  for 
others.  Mr.  Edgarrqond  spoke  of  Corinne  in 
the  most  pleasing  manner  ;  and  Nelvil  replied 
in  English,  to  defend  this  theme  from  the  un- 
congenial comments  of  d'Erfeuil,  who  ex- 
claimed, "  So,  it  seems,  I  am  one  too  many 


which  consumes  humanity ;  be  but  as  indulgent  j  here  :  well,  I'll  to  the  lady;  she  must  be 
in  thy  celestial  home  as  late  thou  wert  on ;  longing  for  my  opinion  of  her  Juliet.  I  have 
earth.  I  should  become  more  worthy  of  thee,  j  a  few  hints  to  give  her,  for  future  improve- 
were  my  heart  content ;  did  I  live  with  thatjment;  they  relate  merely  to  detail,  but  details 
angelic  creature,  had  I  the  honor  of  protecting  do  much  towards  a  whole  ;  and  she  is  really 


— saving  such  a  woman  !      Save  her  ?"   he 
added  suddenly,  "  and  from  what  ?  from  the 


so  astonishing  a  woman  that  I  shall  neglect 
nothing  that  can  brinjj  her  to  perfection?     In- 


life  she  loves — a  life  of  triumph,  flattery,  and i deed,"  he  added,  confidentially  addressing  Nel- 
freedom  !"  This  reflection  of  his  own  agitated  |  vil,  "  I  must  encourage  her  to  play  frequently  ; 
him  as  if  it  had  been  spoken  by  the  spirit  of  i  it  is  the  surest  way  of  catching  some  foreigner 
his  sire.  of  rank.  You  and  I,  dear  Oswald,  are  too 

In  situations  like  Oswald's,  who  has  not  felt  j  accustomed  to  fine  women  for  any  one  of  them 
the  secret  superstition  which  makes  us  regard  i  to  lead  us  into  such  an  absurdity  ;  but  a  Ger- 
our  thoughts  and  sufferings  as  warpings  from !  man  prince,  now,  or  a  Spanish  grandee — who 
on  high  !  Ah,  what  struggles  beset  the  soul  i  knows,  eh  ?"  At  these  words  Oswald  started 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


up,  beside  himself;  and  there  is  no  telling 
what  might  hav«  occurred  had  the  Count 
guessed  his  impulse  ;  but  he  was  so  satisfied 
with  his  own  concluding  remark,  that  he  trip- 
ped from  the  room,  without  a  suspicion  of 
having  offended  Lord  Nelvil :  had  he  dreamt 
of  such  a  thing,  he  would  assuredly  have  re- 
mained where  he  was,  though  he  liked  Oswald 
as  well  as  he  could  like  any  one.  His  bril- 
liant valor  contributed  even  more  than  his 
conceit  to  veil  his  defects  from  himself.  With 
so  much  delicacy  in  all  affairs  of  honor,  he 
could  not  believe  himself  deficient  in  that  of 
feeling ;  and  having  good  right  to  consider 
himself  brave  and  gentlemanly,  he  took  no 
account  of  any  deeper  qualities  than  his 
own. 

Not  cne  cause  of  Oswald's  agitation  had 
escaped  the  ear  of  Edgarmond.  As  soon  as 
they  were  alone,  he  said,  "  My  dear  Nelvil,  I 
leave  you!  I'm  off  for  Naples."  "So  soon  V 
exclaimed  his  friend.  "  Yes,  it  is  not  good 
for  me  to  stay  here ;  for  even  at  fifty  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  should  not  go  mad  for  Corinne." 
"  And  what  then  V  "  Why,  then,  such  a  wo- 
man is  not  fit  to  live  in  Wales  :  believe  me, 
dear  Oswald,  none  but  English  wives  will  do 
for  England.  It  is  not  for  me  to  advise,  and 
I  scarce  need  say  that  I  shall  never  say  a 
word  on  what  I  have  witnessed  here ;  but 
Corinne,  all-charming  as  she  is,  makes  me 
think,  with  Walpole,  '  Of  what  use  would  she 
be  in  the  house  V  Now  the  house  is  every- 
thing with  us,  you  know,  at  least  to  our  wives. 
Can  you  fancy  your  lovely  Italian  remaining 
quietly  at  home,  while  fox-hunts  or  debates 
took  you  abroad  1  or  leaving  you  at  your  wine, 
to  make  tea  against  your  rising  from  the  ta- 
ble !  Dear  Oswald,  the  domestic  worth  of  our 
women  you  will  never  find  elsewhere.  Here 
men  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  please  the  la- 
dies ;  therefore,  the  more  agreeable  they  find 
them,  the  better ;  but  with  us,  -where  the  men 
lead  active  lives,  the  women  should  bloom  in 
the  shade,  to  which  it  were  a  thousand  pities 
if  Corinne  were  condemned.  I  would  have 
her  on  the  throne  of  England,  but  not  beneath 
my  humble  roof.  My  lord  !  I  knew  your 
mother,  whom  your  respected  father  so  much 
regretted  :  just  such  a  woman  will  be  my 
young  cousin  ;  and  that  is  the  wife  I  would 
choose,  were  I  still  of  an  age  to  be  beloved. 
Farewell,  my  dear  Nelvil ;  do  not  take  what 
I  have  said  amiss,  for  no  one  can  admire  Co- 
rinne more  than  I  do  ;  nay,  perhaps,  at  your 
years,  I  should  not  be  able  to  give  up  the  hope 
of  winning  her."  He  pressed  his  young 
friend's  hand  very  cordially,  and  left  him,  ere 
Oswald  could  utter  a  word  ;  but  Edgarmond 
understood  the  cause  of  this  silence,  and  con- 
tent with  the  grasp  which  replied  to  his,  was 


glad  to  conclude  a  conversation  which  had 
cost  him  no  slight  pain. 

The  only  portion  of  what  he  had  said,  that 
reached  the  heart  of  Oswald,  was  the  mention 
of  his  mother,  and  the  deep  affection  his  fa- 
ther felt  for  her.  She  had  died  ere  their  child 
was  fourteen ;  yet  he  revenngly  recalled  the 
retiring  virtues  of  her  character.  "  Madman 
that  I  am  !"  he  cried,  "  I  desired  to  know  what 
kind  of  wife  my  father  had  destined  me,  and 
am  I  not  answered  by  the  image  of  his  own, 
whom  he  adored  ?  What  would  I  more,  then  1 
why  deceive  myself]  why  pretend  an  igno- 
rance of  what  he  would  think  now,  could  I  yet 
onsult  him  1"  Still  it  was  with  terror  that 
be  thought  of  returning  to  Corinne,  without 
giving  her  a  confirmation  of  the  sentiments  he 
had  testified.  The  tumult  of  his  breast  became 
at  last  so  uncontrollable,  that  it  occasioned  a 
recurrence  of  the  distressing  accident  against 
which  he  now  believed  his  lungs  secure.  One 
may  imagine  the  frightful  scene — his  alarmed 
domestics  calling  for  help,  as  he  lay  silently 
hoping  that  death  would  end  his  sorrow.  "  If 
I  could  die,  once  more  looking  on  Corinne," 
he  thought,  "  once  more  called  '  her  Romeo.'  " 
A  few  tears  fell  from  his  eyes,  the  first  that 
any  grief,  save  the  loss  of  his  father,  had  cost 
him  since  that  event. 

He  wrote  a  melancholy  line,  accounting  for 
his  absence,  to  Corinne.  She  had  begun  the 
day  with  fond  delusive  hopes.  Believing 
herself  loved,  she  was  content ;  for  she  knew 
not  very  clearly  what  more  on  earth  she 
wished.  A  thousand  circumstances  blended 
the  thought  of  marrying  Oswald  with  fear ; 
and,  as  it  was  her  nature  to  enjoy  the  present, 
not  to  dwell  on  the  future,  this  day  which  cost 
him  so  much  suffering,  rose  to  her  like  the 
purest,  calmest  of  her  life. 

On  receiving  his  note,  how  were  her  feel- 
ings changed!  She  deemed  him  in  great 
danger,  and  instantly,,  on  foot,  crossed  the 
then  crowded  Corso,  and  entered  his  abode 
before  the  eyes  of  all  Rome.  She  had  not 
given  herself  time  to  think,  but  walked  so 
rapidly,  that  when  she  reached  the  chamber 
she  could  neither  speak  nor  breathe.  He 
comprehended  all  she  had  risked  for  his  sake, 
and  overrated  the  consequences  of  an  act 
which  in  England  would  have  ruined  a  wo- 
man's fame,  especially  if  unwed  :  transported 
by  generosity  and  gratitude,  he  raised  himself, 
weak  as  he  was,  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  and 
murmured,  "  Dear  friend,  can  I  leave  thee  1 
now  that  thou  hast  compromised  thyself  1  no, 
no  ! — let  my  reparation — "  She  read  his 
thoughts,  and  gently  disengaging  herself  from 
his  arms,  first  ascertained  that  he  was  better 
than  she  expected,  then  said  gravely — "  You 
mistake,  my  lord  1  in  coming  to  you  I  have 


60 


j|  done  no  more  than  the  greatest  number  of  wo- 
j|  men  in  Rome  would  have  done  in  my  place. 
Here  you  know  none  but  me.  I  heard  you  were 
ill ;  it  is  my  duty  to  take  care  of  you.  Cere- 
mony should  be  obeyed,  indeed,  when  it  sacri- 
fices but  one's  self,  yet  ought  to  yield  before 
the  higher  feelings  due  to  the  sufferings  or 
danger  of  a  friend.  What  would  be  the  lot  of 
a  woman,  if  the  same  laws  which  permitted 
her  to  love  forbade  ker  to  indulge  the  resistless 
impulse  of  riying  to  the  aid  of  those  most  dear 
to  her  ?  I  repeat,  my  lord,  fear  nothing  from 
me  !  My  age  and  talents  give  me  the  freedom 
of  a  married  female.  I  do  not  conceal  from 
my  friends  that  I  am  here.  1  know  not  if  they 
blame  me  for  loving  you  ;  but  surely,  as  I  do, 
they  cannot  blame  my  devotion  to  you  now." 
This  sincere  and  natural  reply  filled  Oswald's 
heart  with  most  contrasted  emotions  :  touched 
as  he  was  by  its  delicacy,  he  was  half  disap- 
pointed. He  would  have  found  a  pretext  in 
her  peril — a  necessity  for  terminating  his  own 
doubts.  He  mused  with  displeasure  on  Itali- 
an liberty,  which  prolonged  them  thus,  by 
permitting  him  so  much  favor,  without  im- 
posing any  bonds  in  return.  He  wished  that 
honor  had  commanded  him  to  follow  inclina- 
tion. These  troublous  thoughts  caused  him 
a  severe  relapse.  Corinne,  though  suffering 
the  most  intense  anxiety,  lavished  the  fondest 
cares  on  his  revival.  Towards  evening  he 
was  still  more  oppressed ;  she  knelt  beside 
his  couch,  supporting  his  head  upon  her  bo- 
som, though  far  more  pitiable  than  himself. 
Oft  as  he  gazed  on  her,  did  a  look  of  rapture 
break  through  all  his  pangs.  "  Corinne,"  he 
whispered,  "  here  are  some  papers — you  shall 
read  to  me — written  by  my  father  on  death. 
Think  not,"  he  added,  as  he  marked  her  dis- 
may, "that  I  believe  myself  dying;  but  when- 
ever I  am  ill  I  reperuse  these  consolations, 
and  seem  again  to  hear  them  from  his  lips  ; 
besides,  my  dearest,  I  wish  you  to  know  what 
a  man  he  was ;  you  will  the  better  compre- 
hend my  regret,  his  empire  over  me,  and  all 
that  I  intend  some  day  to  confide  to  you." 
Corinne  took  the  papers,  which  Oswald  always 
carried  with  him,  and  in  a  faltering  voice  be- 
gan : — 

"  Oh,  ye  just !  beloved  of  the  Lord !  ye 
•peak  of  death  without  a  fear ;  to  you  it  is 
but  the  change  of  homes ;  and  this  ye  leave 
may  be  the  least  of  all.  Innumerable  worlds 
that  shine  through  that  infinitude  of  space  ! 
unknown  communities  of  His  creatures — of 
His  children  !  strewn  through  the  firmament, 
ranged  beneath  its  concave,  let  ,our  praises 
rise  with  yours  !  We  know  not  your  condi- 
tion, nor  your  share  of  God's  free  bounty  ; 
but,  in  thinking  over  life  and  death,  the  past 
and  the  future,  we  participate  in  the  interests 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


of  all  intelligent,  all  sentient  beings,  however 
distant  be  their  dwelling  places.  Assembled 
spheres !  wide  scattered  families !  ye  sing 
with  us,  Glory  to  the  Lord  of  Heaven  !  the 
King  of  earth  !  the  Spirit  of  the  universe  ! 
whose  will  transforms  sterility  to  harvest, 
darkness  to  light,  and  death  to  life  eternal. 

"  Assuredly  the  end  of  the  just  man  de- 
serves our  envy  ;  but  few  of  us,  few  of  those 
that  have  gone  before  us,  have  looked  on  such 
a  death.  Where  is  he  who  shall  meet  the 
eye  of  Omnipotence  unawed  ?  Where  is  he 
who  hath  loved  God  without  once  wavering, 
or  who  has  served  him  from  his  youth  up, 
and,  in  his  age,  finds  nothing  to  remember 
with  remorse  ?  Where  is  the  man,  in  all  his 
actions  moral,  «who  has  not  been  led  by  flat- 
tery, or  scared  by  slander  ?  So  rare  a  model 
were  worthy  of  imitation  ;  but  where  exists 
it  ]  If  such  be  amongst  us,  how  ought  our 
respect  to  follow  him !  Let  us  beg  to  be 
present  at  his  death,  as  at  the  loveliest  of  hu- 
man spectacles.  Take  courage  and  approach 
that  bed  whence  he  will  rise  no  more  !  He 
knows  it,  yet  is  all  serene  :  a  heavenly  halo 
seems  to  crown  his  brow.  He  says,  with  the 
Apostle,  '  I  know  in  whom  I  have  believed  ;' 
and  this  reliance,  as  his  strength  decays,  lights 
up  his  features  still.  Already  he  beholds  his 
celestial  home,  but  without  forgetting  the  one 
he  leaves.  He  is  God's  own  ;  but  turns  not 
stoically  from. the  ties  that  lent  a  charm  to  his 
past  life.  His  faithful  partner,  by  the  law  of 
nature,  will  be  the  first  to  follow  him.  He 
dries  her  tears,  and  tells  her  they  shall  meet 
in  heaven  !  Even  there  unable  to  expect 
felicity  without  her.  Next  he  reminds  her 
of  the  happy  days  that  they  have  led  together ; 
not  to  afflict  the  heart  of  so  dear  a  friend,  but 
to  increase  their  mutual  confidence  in  divine 
goodness.  He  recalls  the  tender  love  he 
ever  bore  his  life's  companion,  not  to  aggra- 
vate her  regret,  but  to  bid  her  revel  in  the 
sweet  idea  that  their  two  beings  were  as  plants 
growing  from  the  same  stem  ;  and  that  this 
union  may  prove  one  defence,  one  guarantee 
the  more,  against  the  terrors  of  that  dark  fu- 
turity wherein  God's  pity  is  the  sole  refuge 
of  our  startled  thoughts.  But  how  conceive 
the  thousand  feelings  that  pierce  a  constant 
heart,  when  one  vast  solitude  appears  before 
it,  and  all  the  interests  that  have  filled  past 
years  are  vanishing  for  ever  T  O  thou,  who 
must  survive  that  second  self,  which  Heaven 
lent  for  thy  support !  who  was  thine  all,  and 
whose  looks  now  bid  thee  a  sad  adieu,  thou 
wilt  not  shrink  from  laying  thy  hand  upon  the 
fainting  heart,  whose  latest  pulse,  after  the 
death  of  words,  speaks  in  thine  own.  Shall 
we  then  blame  you,  faithful  friends,  if  you 
wish  your  d  us  i  might  mingle?  All-gracious 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


61 


Deity  !  awaken  them  together.  Or,  if  but 
one  deserves  thy  favoring  call  to  number  with 
the  elect,  let  but  the  other  learn  these  blissful 
tidings  ;  read  them  in  angel  light  one  fleeting 
instant,  and  he  will  sink  back  resigned  to  per- 
petual gloom.  Perhaps  I  err  in  this  essay  to 
paint  the  last  hours  of  such  a  man,  who  sees 
the  advancing  strides  of  death,  and  feels  that 
he  must  part  from  all  he  holds  most  dear. 
He  struggles  for  a  momentary  strength,  that 
his  last  words  may  serve  to  instruct  his  chil- 
dren. '  Feai-  not,'  he  says  ;  '  to  watch  your 
sire's  release,  to  lose  your  oldest  friend  ;  it  is 
by  God's  ordinance  he  goes  before  you,  from 
a  world  into  which  he  came  the  first.  He 
would  fain  teach  you  courage,  though  he 
weeps  to  say  farewell :  he  could  have-wished 
to  stay  and  aid  you  longer,  by  experience  to 
have  led  you  some  steps  farther  on  the  way 
surrounded  by  such  perils  for  your  youth  ;  but 
life  has  no  defence  against  its  Giver's  man- 
date. You  will  proceed  alone  in  a  wide 
wffrld,  where  I  shall  be  no  more.  May  you 
ibundantly  reap  all  the  blessings  that  Provi- 
dence has  sown  there !  But  never  forget 
that  this  world  is  only  a  land  through  which 
we  only  journey  to  our  home.  Let  us  hope 
to  meet  again.  May  our  Father  accept  the 
sacrifice  I  tender,  in  your  cause,  of  all  my 
vows  and  tears  !  Cling  to  religion  !  Trust 
its  promises  !  Love  it,  as  the  last  link  be- 
twixt child  and  parent ;  betwixt  lile  and  death  ! 
Draw  near  me,  that  I  may  see  you  still.  The 
benediction  of  a  servant  of  God  rest  with  you 
all !'  He  dies  !  Angels,  receive  his  soul,  and 
leave  us  here  the  memory  of  his  deeds,  his 
faith,  his  chastened  hope."  (19) 

The  emotions  of  Oswald  and  Corinne  had 
frequently  interrupted  their  progress  :  at  last 
they  were  obliged  to  give  up  the  attempt. 
She  trembled  lest  he  should  harm  himself  by 
weeping,  unconscious  that  her  tears  flowed 
fast  as  his.  "  Yes,"  sobbed  Nelvil  ;  "  yes, 
dear  friend  of  my  soul,  our  tears  have  mingled ; 
you  have  mourned  with  me  that  guardian  saint 
whose  last  embrace  yet  thrills  my  breast, 
whose  nohrle  countenance  I  still  behold.  Per- 
aps  he  has  chosen  thee  for  my  solace." 
"  No,  no,"  exclaimed  Corinne,  "  he  did  not 
think  me  worthy."  "\Yhatsay  you1?"  inter- 
rupted Oswald ;  and  alarmed,  lest  she  had 
betrayed  herself,  she  replied,  "  He  might  not 
have  thought  me  worthy  of  you."  The  slight 
change  of  phrase  dissipated  his  uneasiness, 
and  he  fearlessly  continued  speaking  of  his 
father. 

The  physicians  arrived,  and  slightly  re- 
assured him  ;  but  absolutely  forbade  his  at- 
'empting  to  converse,  until  his  internal  hurt 
vas  healed.  Six  whole  days  passed,  during 
Wl^ch  Corinne  never  left  him.  With  gentle 


firmness  she  enjoined  him  silence,  yet  con- 
trived to  vary  the  hours  by  reading,  music, 
and  sometimes  by  a  sportive  dialogue,  in  which 
she  sustained  both  parts  :  serious  or  gay,  it 
was  for  his  sake  that  she  supported  herself, 
veiling  beneath  a  thousand  graceful  arts  the 
solicitude  which  consumed  her ;  she  was  never 
off  her  guard  for  an  instant.  She  perceived 
what  Oswald  suffered,  almost  before  himself; 
the  courage  he  assumed  deceived  her  not ; 
she  did,  indeed,  "  anticipate  the  asking'  eye," 
while  her  chief  endeavor  was  that  of  diverting 
his  mind,  as  much  as  possible,  from  the  value 
of  these  tender  offices.  If  he  turned  pale,  the 
rose  fled  from  her  lip,  and  her  hand  trembled 
as  she  brought  him  a  restorative  :  even  then 
would  she  smile  through  her  tears,  and  press 
his  hand  to  her  heart,  as  if  she  would  fain 
have  added  her  stock  of  life  to  his. 

At  last  her  efforts  succeeded :  he  recovered. 
"  Corinne,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  permitted  to 
speak,  "  why  has  not  my  friend  Edgarmond 
witnessed  your  conduct  ?  he  would  have  seen 
that  you"  are  not  less  good  than  great ;  that 
domestic  life  with  you  would  be  a  perpetual 
enchantment ;  that  you  differ  from  our  women 
only  in  adding  charms  to  virtue.  It  is  too 
much !  here  must  end  the  combat  that  has  so 
nearly  reduc'ed  me  to  the  grave.  Corinne ! 
you,  who  conceal  your  own  secrets,  shall  hear 
all  mine,  and  pronounce  our  doom."  "  Our 
doom,"  she  replied,  "if  you  feel  as  I  do,  is — 
not  to  part ;  yet  believe  me,  till  now,  at  least, 
I  have  never  dared  to  wish  myself  your  wife  : 
the  scheme  of  my  existence  is  entirely  disor- 
dered by  the  love  that  every  day  enslaves  me 
more  and  more ;  yet  I  know  not  if  we  ought 
to  marry."  "Corinne,"  he  cried,  "do  you 
despise  me  for  having  hesitated  ?  Can  you 
attribute  my  delay  to  contemptible  motives  ? 
Have  you  not  guessed  that  the  deep  remorse, 
to  which  I  have  been  for  two  years  a  prey, 
alone  has  been  the  cause  *  "I  know  it,"  she 
answered.  "  Had  I  suspected  you  of  con- 
siderations foreign  to  those  of  the  heart,  you 
would  not  have  beeH  dear  to  me.  But  life,  I 
know,  belongs  not  all  to  love  ;  habit  and  me- 
mory weave  such  nets  around  us  that  even 
passion  cannot  quite  destroy  ;  broken  for  a 
moment,  they  will  grow  again,  as  the  ivy 
clasps  the  oak.  My  dear  Oswald  !  let  us  give 
no  epoch  of  life  more  than  it  requires.  At 
this,  it  is  essential  to  me  that  you  leave  me 
not.  The  dread  of  a  sudden  separation  inces- 
santly pursues  me.  You  are  a  stranger  here  ; 
no  ties  detain  you  ;  if  once  you  go,  all  is  over'; 
nothing  will  be  left  to  me  of  you,  but  my  owu 
grief.  Nature,  the  arts,  poetry,  all  that  1 
have  shared  with  you,  lately,  alas  !  with  you 
alone,  will  speak  no  longer  to  my  soul !  I 
never  wake  without  trembling.  I  ask  the  fair 


62 


CORIXNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


day  if  it  has  still  a  right  to  shine  ;  if  you,  the 
sun  of  my  being,  are  near  me  yet !  Oswald, 
remove  this  fear,  and  I  will  not  look  beyond 
the  present's  sweet  security."  "  You  know," 
replied  he,  "  that  no  Englishman  should  re- 
nounce his  country  :  war  may  recall  me." 
"  Oh  God  !"  she  cried,  "  would  you  prepare 
my  mind  1"  Her  limbs  quivered,  as  if  at  the 
approach  of  the  most  terrific  danger.  "  If  it 
be  even  so,"  she  added,  "  take  me  with  you — 
as  your  wife — your  slave  !"  Then  suddenly 
regaining  her  spirits,  she  continued, — "  Os- 
wald, you  will  never  depart  without  warning 
me  ?  Never  !  will  you  1  Listen  !  in  no  coun- 
try is  a  criminal  led  to  torture  without  being 
allowed  to  collect  his  thoughts.  It  must  not 
be  by  letter :  you  will  come  yourself,  to  tell 
me — to  hear  me — ere  you  fly  1  How  !  you 
hesitate  to  grant  my  prayer  V  "  No,"  re- 
turned he,  "  you  wish  it ;  and  I  swear,  if  my 
departure  be  necessary,  I  will  apprise  you  of 
t,  and  that  moment  shall  decide  our  fate." 
She  left  him. 


CHAPTER  II. 

CORINNE  now  carefully  avoided  all  explana- 
tions. She  wished  to  render  her  lover's  life 
as  calm  as  possible.  Their  every  interview 
had  tended  to  convince  her  that  the  disclosure 
of  what  she  had  been,  and  sacrificed,  was  but 
too  likely  to  make  an  unfavorable  impression  ; 
she,  therefore,  sought  again  to  interest  him 
in  the  still  unseen  wonders  of  Rome,  and 
thus  retard  the  instant  that  must  clear  all 
doubts.  Such  a  situation  would  be  insup- 
portable beneath  any  other  feeling  than  love, 
which  sheds  such  spells  over  every  minute, 
that,  though  still  desiring  some  indefinite  futu- 
rity, we  receive  a  day  as  a  century  of  joy,  or 
of  pain.  Love  is  the  emblem  of  eternity  :  it 
confounds  all  notion  of  time  ;  effaces  all  me- 
mory of  a  beginning,  all  fear  of  an  end  :  we 
fancy  that  we  have  always  loved  the  object  of 
our  affection,  so  difficult  is  it  to  imagine  how 
we  could  have  lived  without  it.  The  more 
terrible  separation  seems  the  less  probable  it 
becomes  :  like  death,  it  is  the  evil  we  rather 
name  than  believe,  as  if  the  inevitable  were 
impossible.  Corinne,  who,  in  her  innocent 
artifices  for  varying  Oswald's  amusements, 
had  hitherto  reserved  the  statues  and  paint- 
ings, now  proposed  taking  him  to  see  them, 
as  his  health  was  sufficiently  re-established. 
"  It  is  shameful,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  "  that 


you  should  still  be  ignorant  of  these  riches  of 
art ;  therefore  to-morrow  we  will  commence 
our  tour  through  the  galleries  and  museums." 
"  As  you  will,"  returned  Nelvil  ;  "  but,  in- 
deed, Corinne,  you  want  not  the  aid  of  such 
resources  to  keep  me  with  you  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, I  make  a  sacrifice  to  obey  you,  in  turn- 
ing my  gaze  to  any  other  object,  be  it  what  it 
may." 

They  went  first  to  the  Vatican,  that  palace 
of  sculpture,  where  the  human  form  shines 
deified  by  paganism,  as  are  the  virtues  by 
Christianity.  In  those  silent  halls  are  assem- 
bled gods  and  heroes  ;  while  beauty,  in  eter- 
nal sleep,  seems  dreaming  of  herself.  As  we 
contemplate  these  admirable  forms  and  fea- 
tures, the  design  of  the  Divinity,  in  creating 
man,  seems  revealed  by  the  noble  person  he 
has  deigned  to  bestow  on  him.  The  soul  is 
elevated  by  hopes  full  of  chaste  enthusiasm  ; 
for  beauty  is  a  portion  of  the  universe,  which, 
beneath  whatever  guise  presented,  awakes  re- 
ligion in  the  heart  of  man.  What  poetry  in- 
vests a  face  where  the  most  sublime  expres- 
sion is  fixed  for  ever,  where  the  grandest 
thoughts  are  enshrined  in  images  so  worthy 
of  them  !  Sometimes  an  ancient  sculptor 
completed  but  one  statue  in  his  life  ;  that 
constituted  his  history.  He  daily  added  to 
its  perfection  :  if  he  loved  or  was  beloved  ;  if 
he  derived  .fresh  ideas  from  art  or  nature, 
they  served  but  to  embellish  the  features  of 
this  idol.  He  translated  into  looks  all  the 
feelings  of  his  soul.  Grief,  in  modern  times, 
in  a  state  of  society  cold  and  oppressive  as 
the  present,  ennobles  its  victim  ;  and  the  being 
who  has  not  suffered  can  never  have  thought 
or  felt.  But  with  the  ancients  there  was 
something  even  more  noble  than  grief,  an 
heroic  composure,  a  sense  of  internal  strength, 
developed  by  the  influences  of  free  institu- 
tions. The  loveliest  Grecian  statues  were 
mostly  expressive  of  repose.  The  Laocoon 
and  the  Niobe  are  among  the  few  stamped  by 
sorrow  ;  but  it  is  the  vengeance  of  heaven 
and  not  of  human  passion  that  they  both  ex- 
press. The  moral  being  was  so  well  organ- 
ized of  old,  the  air  circulated  so  freely  in 
those  manly  breasts,  and  political  order  so 
harmonized  with  the  faculties,  that  there  did 
not  exist  that  discontentedness  of  spirit  which 
indeed  leads  to  the  development  of  much  re- 
finement of  thought,  but  which  does  not  furnish 
to  the  fine  arts,  and  especially  sculpture,  the 
primitive  elements  of  the  feelings  which  can 
alone  be  well  represented  by  the  eternal  mar- 
ble. Hardly  can  a  trace  of  melancholy  be 
found  in  their  statues.  A  head  of  Apollo,  in 
the  Justinian  palace,  and  one  of  the  dyirV 
Alexander,  indeed,  betray  both  thoughtfulne58 
and  pain ;  but  they  belonged  to  the  perio*  °* 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


03 


Grecian  slavery,  which  banished  the  tranquil 
pride  that  usually  pervaded  both  their  sculp- 
ture and  their  poetry. 

Thought,  unfed  from  without,  preys  on 
itself,  digging  up  and  analysing  its  own  trea- 
sures ;  but  it  has  not  the  creative  power 
which  happiness  alone  can  give.  Even  the 
antique  sarcophagi  of  the  Vatican  teem  but 
with  martial  or  joyous  images  :  the  comme- 
moration of  an  active  life  they  thought  the 
best  homage  they  could  pay  the  dead.  No- 
thing weakened  or  discouraged  the.  living. 
Emulation  was  the  reigning  principle  in  art 
as  in  policy  :  there  was  room  for  all  the  vir- 
tues, as  for  all  the  talents.  The  vulgar  prided 
in  the  ability  to  admire,  and  genius  was  wor- 
shipped even  by  those  who  could  not  aspire 
to  its  palm.  Grecian  religion  was  not,  like 
Christianity,  the  solace  of  misery,  the  wealth 
of  the  poor,  the  future  of  the  dying :  it  re- 
quired glory  and  triumph ;  jt  formed  the  apo- 
theosis of  man.  In  this  perishable  creed  even 
beauty  was  a  religious  dogma  :  artists,  called 
on  to  represent  base  or  ferocious  passions, 
shielded  the  human  form  from  degradation,  by 
blending  it  with  the  animal,  as  in  the  satyrs 
and  centartrs.  On  the  contrary,  when  seeking 
to  realise  an  unusual  sublimity,  they  combined 
the  charms  of  both  sexes ;  as  in  the  warlike 
Minerva,  and  the  Apollo  Musagetes  ;  felicitous 
union,  of  vigor  and  sweetness,  without  which 
neither  q-iality  can  attain  perfection  !  Corinne 
delayed  Oswald  some  time  before  the  sleeping 
figures  that  adorn  the  tombs,  in  a  manner  most, 
favorable!  to  the  art.  She  observed  that  statues 
representing  an  action  suspended  at  its  height, 
an  impulse  suddenly  checked,  create,  some- 
times, a  painful  astonishment ;  but  an  attitude 
of  complete  repose  offers  an  image  that  tho- 
roughly accords  with  the  general  influence  of 
the  soui  hern  clime.  The  arts  there  seem  but 
the  peaceful  spectators  of  nature  ;  .and  genius 
itself,  vhich  agitates  a  northern  breast,  there 
appears  but  one  harmony  the  more.  Oswald 
and  Ccrinne  entered  the  court  in  which  the 
sculptured  animals  are  assembled,  with  the 
statue  of  Tiberius  in  the  midst  of.  them  :  this 
arrangement  was  made  without  premeditation ; 
the  creatures  seem  to  have  ranged  themselves 
around  their  master.  Another  such  hall  con- 
tains the  gloomy  works  of  the  Egyptians, 
whose  statues  resemble  mummies  more  than 
men.  This  people,  as  much  as  possible,  as- 
similated life  with  death,  and  lent  no  animation 
to  their  human  effigies  ;  they  excelled  more  in 
the  art  of  imitating  animals  than  men  ;  it  was 
ths  provinces  of  the  soul  which  appeared  to  be 
to  them  inaccessible.  About  the  porticoes  of 
this  museum  each  step  presents  new  wonders  : 
vases,  altars,  ornaments  of  all  kinds,  surround 
the  Apollo,  the  Laocoon,  and  the  Muses. 


Here  may  one  learn  to  appreciate  Homer  and 
Sophocles,  attaining  a  knowledge  of  antiquity 
that  cannot  be  elsewhere  acquired. 

Amid  these  porticoes  are  fountains,  whose 
incessant  flow  gently  reminds  you  of  the  hours 
which  pass  now  as  they  passed  two  thousand 
years  since  the  artists  of  these  chefs-d'ceuvres 
existed.  But  the  most  melancholy  sights  -here 
are  the  broken  statues,  the  torso  of  Hercules, 
heads  separated  from  their  trunks  ;  the  foot  of 
a  Jupiter,  which  it  is  supposed  must  have  be- 
longed to  the  largest  and  most  symmetrical 
statue  ever  known.  We  seem  to  be  on  the  bat- 
tle-field whereon  Time  has  contended  with 
Glory ;  these  mutilated  limbs  attesting  the 
tyrant's  victory,  and  our  own  losses. 

After  leaving  the  Vatican,  Corinne  led  Os- 
wald to  the  colossal  figures  on  Monte  Cavallo, 
said  to  be  those  of  Castor  and  Pollux.  Each 
of  these  heroes  governs  a  foaming  steed  with 
one  hand  :  this  struggle  of  man  with  brute, 
like  all  the  works  of  the  ancients,  finely  ex- 
emplifying the  physical  powers  of  human  na- 
ture, which  had  then  a  dignity  it  no  longer 
possesses.  Bodily  exercises  are  generally 
abandoned  to  our  common  people :  personal 
vigor,  in  the  antique,  appeared  so  intimately 
connected  with  the  moral  qualities  of  those 
who  lived  in  the  heart  of  war,  a  war  of  single 
combats,  that  generosity,  fierceness,  command, 
and  height  of  stature,  seemed  inseparable,  ere 
an  intellectual  religion  had  throned  man's 
potency  in  his  soul.  As  the  gods  wore  our 
shape,  every  attribute  appears  symbolical :  the 
"  brawns  of  Hercules"  suggest  no  recollec- 
tions of  vulgar  life,  but  of  divine,  almighty 
will,  clothed  in  supernatural  grandeur. 

Corinne  and  Oswald  finished  their  day  by 
visiting  the  studio  of  the  great  Canova.  The 
statues  gained  much  from  being  seen  by  torch- 
light, as  the  ancients  must  have  thought,  who 
placed  them  in  their  Thermes,  inaccessible  to 
the  day.  A  deeper  shade  thus  softens  the 
brilliant  uniformity  of  the  marble  :  its  pale- 
ness looks  more  like  that  of  life.  At  that 
time  Canova  had  just  achieved  an  exquisite 
figure,  intended  for  a  tomb ;  it  represented 
the  genius  of  Grief  leaning  on  a  Lion.  Co- 
rinne detected  a  resemblance  to  Nelvil,  with 
which  the  artist  himself  was  struck.  Oswald 
turned  away  his  head,  to  avoid  this  kind  of 
attention,  yet  whispered  to  his  beloved,  "  Co- 
rinne, I  believed  myself  condemned  to  this 
eternal  grief  ere  I  met  you,  who  have  so 
changed  me,  that  sometimes  hope,  and  always 
a  delicious  agitation,  pervades  the  heart  that 
ought  to  be  devoted  to  regret." 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


CHAPTER  III. 

IN  painting,  the  wealth  of  Rome  surpasses 
that  of  the  rest  of.the  world.  Only  one  point 
of  discussion  can  exist  on  the  effect  which 
her  pictures  produce — does  the  nature  of  the 
subjects  selected  by  Italy's  great  masters  ad- 
mit the  varied  originality  of  passion  which 
painting  can  express  ?  The  difference  of 
opinion  between  Oswald  and  Corinne  on  this 
point,  as  on  others,  sprung  but  from  fche  differ- 
ence of  their  countries  and  creeds.  Corinne 
affirmed  that  Scripture  subjects  were  those 
most  favorable  to  the  painter ;  that  sculpture 
was  the  Pagan's  art,  and  painting  the  Chris- 
tian's ;  that  Michael  Angelo,  the  painter'  of 
the  Old,  and  Raphael,  that  of  the  New  Tes- 
tament, musl  have  been  gifted  with  sensibility 
profound  as  that  of  Shakspeare  or  Racine. 
"  Sculpture,"  she  sairf,  "  can  present  but  a 
simple  or  energetic  life  to  the  eye,  while 
painting  displays  the  mysteries  of  retirement 
and  resignation,  and  makes  the  immortal  spirit 
speak  through  the  fleeting  colors.  Historical 
facts,  or  incidents  drawn  from  the  poets,  are 
rarely  picturesque.  One  had  need,  in  order 
to  understand  them,  to  keep  up  the  custom  of 
writing  the  speeches  of  their  personages  on 
ribands  rolling  from  their  mouths.  But  reli- 
gious pieces  are  insvintly  comprehended  by 
the  whole  world :  and  our  attention  is  not 
turned  from  the  art  in  order  to  divine  their 
meaning.  t 

"  The  generality  of  modern  painters  are  too 
theatrical.  They  bear  the  stamp  of  an  age 
in  which  the  unity  of  existence  and  natural 
way  of  life,  familiar  to  Andrew  Mantegne, 
Perugin,  and  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  is  entirely 
forgotten.  To  this  antique  repose  they  were 
wont  to  add  the  depth  of  feeling  which  marks 
Christianity.  For  this  I  admire  the  composi- 
tions of  Raphael,  especially  in  his  early  works. 
All  the  figures  tend  towards  the  main  object, 
without  being  elaborately  grouped  to  create  a 
sensation — thjs  honesty  in  the  arts,  as  in  all 
things  else,  characterizes  true  genius  ;  for  ar- 
tifices for  effect  usually  destroy  enthusiasm. 
There  is  a  rhetoric  in  painting  as  in  poetry  ; 
and  those  who  have  it  not  seek  to  veil  the 
defect  in  brilliant  but  delusive  auxiliaries,  rich 
costume,  and  remarkable  postures,  while  an 
unpretending  virgin,  with  her  infant  at  her 
breast,  an  old  man  attending  the  mass  of  Bol- 
sena,  a  young  one  leaning  on  his  staff,  in  the 
school  of  Athens,  or  St.  Cecilia  raising  her 
j  eyes  to  heaven,  hy  the  mere  expression  of  the 
'  countenance  alone,  act  much  more  powerfully 
on  the  mind.  These  natural  beauties  grow  on 
us  each  day,  while  of  works  done  for  effect 
our  first  sight  is  always  the  most  striking." 
(20)  Corinne  fortified  these  reflections  by  an- 


other— it  was  the  impossibility  of  our  sympa- 
thizing with  the  mythology  of  the  Greeks  and 
Romans,  or  inventing  on  their  ground.  "  We 
may  imitate  them  by  study,"  she  said  ;  "  but 
the  wings  of  genius  cannot  be  restrained  to 
flights  for  which  learning  and  memory  are  so 
indispensable,  and  wherein  it  can  but  copy 
books  or  statues.  Now  in  pictures  alluding 
to  our  own  history  and  faith  the  painter  is 
personally  inspired  ;  feeling  what  he  depicts, 
retracing  what  he  has  seen,  he  draws  from  the 
life.  Portraitures  of  piety  are  mental  bless- 
ings that  no  others  could  replace  :  as  they 
assure  us  that  the  artist's  genius  was  animated 
by  the  holy  zeal  which  alone  can  support  us 
against  the  disgusts  of  life  and  the  injustice 
of  man." 

Oswald  could  not,  in  all  respects,  agree  with 
her  :  he  was  almost  scandalised  at  seeing  that 
Michael  Angelo  had  attempted  to  represent 
the  Deity  himself  in  mortal  shape  ;  he  thought 
that  we  should  not  dare  embody  Him  ;  and 
that  we  could  scarcely  call  up  from  the  very 
depths  of  the  soul  one  conception  sufficiently 
ethereal  to  raise  towards  the  Supreme  Being  ; 
and  as  to  subjects  taken  from  Scripture,  he  felt 
that  the  expressions  and  images  of  his  kind 
of  painting,  leave  us  much  to  desire.  He  be- 
lieved, with  Corinne,  that  religious  meditation 
is  the  most  heartfelt  sentiment  we  can  expe- 
rience, and  that  which  supplies  a  painter  with 
the  grandest  physiognomical  mysteries ;  but 
as  religion  represses  all  movements  of  the 
heart  to  which  she  has  not  given  birth,  the 
faces  of  saints  and  martyrs  cannot  be  much 
varied.  Humility,  so  lovely  in  the  sight  of 
heaven,  weakens  the  energy  of  earthly  pas- 
sion, and  necessarily  monotunises  the  gene- 
rality of  scriptural  subjects.  When  the  ter- 
rible Angelo  dealt  with  them,  he  almost 
changed  their  spirit,  giving  to  his  prophets 
that  formidable  air  more  suitable  to  heathen 
gods  than  to  saints.  Oft,  too,  like  Dante,  he 
mixed  Pagan  attributes  with  those  of  Chris- 
tianity. One  of  the  most  affecting  truths  in 
its  early  establishment  is  the  lowly  station  of 
the  apostles  who  preached  it.  the  slavery  of 
the  Jews,  so  long  the  depositaries  of  the 
promise  that  announced  the  Saviour.  This 
contrast  between  insignificance  of  means  and 
greatness  of  result  is  morally  beautiful.  Yet, 
in  painting,  where  means  alone  can  be  dis- 
played, Christian  subjects  must  needs  prove  j 
less  attractive  than  those  derived  from  the 
times  of  heroic  fable.  Of  all  arts,  none  save 
music  can  be  purely  religious.  Painting  can- 
not be  content  with  an  expression  indefinite  as 
that  of  sound.  It  is  true  that  a  happy  combi- 
nation of  colors  and  of  clair-obscure,  is  har- 
mony to  the  e\e;  but  as  it  shows  us  life,  it 
should  give  foith.  life's  strong  and  varied  pas- 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


sions.  Undoubtedly  such  passages  of  history 
ought  to  be  selected  as  are  too  well  known  to 
.be  unintelligible  :  facts  must  flash  on  us  from 
i  canvass,  for  all  the  pleasures  the  fine  arts  be- 
i  stow  are  thus  immediate  :  but  with  this  equali- 
I  ty  provided,  historical  pictures  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  diversified  situation  and  sentiments. 
Nelvil  asserted,  too,  that  a  preference  should 
be  given  to  scenes  from  tragedies,  or  the  most 
j .  touching  poetic  fictions,  so  that  all  the  plea- 
sures of  imagination  might  thus  unite.  Co- 
rinne  contended  against  this  opinion,  seducing 
as  it  was ;  convinced  that  the  encroachment 
of  one  art  upon  another  would  be  mutually  in- 
jurious. For  sculpture  loses  by  attempting 
the  groups  that  belong  to  painting,  painting  by 
aspiring  to  dramatic  animation.  The  arts  are 
limited,  not  in  their  powers  but  in  their  means. 
Genius  seeks  not  to  vanquish  the  fitness  of 
things  which  its  glory  consists  in  divining. 
"  You,  my  dear  Oswald,"  said  Corinne,  "  love 
not  the  arts  for  themselves,  but  as  they  accord 
with  your  own  feelings  ;  you  are  moved  merely 
when  they  remind  you  of  your  heart's  afflic- 
tions. Music  and  poetry  better  suit  such  a 
disposition  than  those  which  speak  to  the  eye, 
however  ideally  ;  they  can  but  please  or  inte- 
rest us  while  our  minds  are  calm  and  our  fancy 
is  free.  We  need  not  the  gaiety  which  so- 
ciety confers  in  order  to  enjoy  them,  but  the 
composure  born  of  soft  and  radiant  climes. 
We  ought,  in  the  arts  that  represent  exterior 
objects,  to  feel  the  universal  harmony  of  na- 
ture, which,  while  we  are  distressed,  we  have 
not  within  ourselves/'  "  I  know  not,"  an- 
swered Oswald,  ''  if  I  have  sought  food  for 
my  sorrows  in  the  arts,  but  at  least  1  am  sure 
that  I  cannot  endure  their  reminding  me  of 
physical  suffering.  My  strongest  objection 
against  Scripture  pictures  is  the  pain  I  feel  in 
looking  on  blood  and  tortures,  however  exalted 
the  faith  of  their  victims.  Philocletus  is,  per- 
haps, the  only  tragic  subject  in  which  such 
agonies  can  be  admitted  ;  but  with  how  much 
of  poetry  are  his  cruel  pangs  invested  !  They 
are  caused  by  the  darts  of  Hercules ;  and 
surely  the  son  of  Esculapius  can  cure  them. 
His  wounds  are  so  associated  with  the  moral  re- 
sentment they  stir  in  that  pierced  breast,  that 
they  can  excite  no  symptom  of  disgust.  But 
the  Possessed  in  Raphael's  Transfiguration  is 
disagreeable  and  undignified.  We  would  fain 
discover  the  charm  of  grief,  or  fancy  it  like 
the  melancholy  of  prosperity.  It  is  the  ideal 
cf  human  fate  that  ought  to  appear.  Nothing 
is  more  revolting  than  ensanguined  gashes  or 
muscular  convulsions.  In  such  pictures  we 
at  once  miss  and  dread  to  find  exactitude  of 
imitation.  What  pleasure  could  such  attempt- 
ed fidelity  bestow  1  it  is  always  either  more 
horrible  or  less  lovely  than  nature  herself.". 


"  You  are  right,  my  Lord,"  said  Corinne,  "  in 
wishing  that  these  blots  should  be  effaced  from 
Christian  pictures ;  they  are  unnecessary. 
Nevertheless,  allow  that  soul-felt  genius  can 
triumph  over  them  all.  Look  on  the  death  of 
St.  Jerome  by  Domenichino ;  that  venerable 
frame  is  livid,  emaciated  ;  but  life  eternal  fills 
his  aspect ;  and  the  miseries  of  the  w'orld  are 
here  collected  "but  to  melt  before  the  hallowed 
rays  of  devotion.  Yet,  dear  Oswald,  though 
I  am  not  wholly  of  your  mind,  I  wish  to  show 
you  that,  even  in  differing,  we  have  always 
some  analogy.  I  have  attempted  a  realization 
of  your  ideal  in  the  gallery  to  which  my 
brothers  in  art  have  contributed,  and  where  I 
have  sketched  a  few  designs  myself:  you 
shall  see  the  advantages  and  defects  of  the 
styles  you  prefer  in  my  house  at  Tivoli.  The 
weather  is  fine  ;  shall  we  go  there  to-mor- 
row ?"  "  My  friend,  can  you  doubt  my  reply  ]" 
he  exclaimed.  "  Have  I  another  blessing  in 
the  world  but  you  1  The  life  I  have  too  much 
freed  from  all  other  occupations  and  all  other 
interests  is  now  filled  by  the  felicity  of  seeing 
and  of  hearing  you !" 


CHAPTER  IY. 

OSWALD  himself  drove  the  four  horses  that 
drew  them  next  day  towards  Tivoli :  he  de- 
lighted in  their  rapid  course,  which  seemed  to 
lend  fresh  vivacity  to  the  sense  of  existence 
— an  impression  so  sweet  when  enjoyed  be- 
side those  we  love.  He  was  cautious,  even 
to  fear,  lest  the  slightest  accident  should  befal 
his  charge,  exercising  protecting  care  which 
Is  such  a  link  betwixt  man  and  woman  !  Co- 
rinrie,  though  less  easily  alarmed  than  the  rest- 
of  her  sex,  observed  his  solicitude  with  such 
pleasure,  as  made  her  almost  wish  she  could 
be  frightened,  that  she  might  claim  the  re-as- 
surance of  Oswald.  What  gave  him  so  great 
an  ascendency  over  her,  was  the  occasional 
unexpected  contrasts  with  himself  that  lent  a 
peculiar  charm  to  his  whole  manner.  -Every 
one  admired  his  mind  and  person  ;  but  both 
were  particularly  interesting  to  a  woman  at 
once  thus  constant  and  versatile.  Though 
occupied  by  nothing  but  Corinne,  this  same 
interest  perpetually  assumed  a  new  character  : 
sometimes  reserve  predominated ;  then  he 
abandoned  himself  to  his  passion  ;  anon  he 
was  perfectly  amiable  and  content ;  then  by  a 
gloomy  bitterness,  he  betrayed  the  sincerity 
of  his  distress.  Agitated  at  heart,  he  strove 


66 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY." 


to  appear  serene,  and  left  her  to  guess  the  se- 
crets of  his  bosom.  This  kept  her  curiosity 
for  ever  on  the  alert.  His  very  faults  set  off 
his  merits  ;  and  no  man,  however  agreeable, 
who  was  devoid  of  these  contradictions  and 
inconsistencies,  could  thus  have  captivated 
Corinne  :  she  was  subdued  by  a  certain  fear 
of  him.  He  reigned  in  her  heart  by  a  gcod 
and  by  an  evil  power — by  his  own  qualities, 
and  by  the  anxiety  their  ill-regulated  state  in- 
spired. There  was  no  safety  in  the  happiness 
he  bestowed.  This,  perhaps,  accounts  for  the 
exaltation  of  her  love  ;  she  might  not  have 
thus  adored  aught  she  did  not  fear  to  lose.  A 
mind  of  ardent  yet  delicate  sensibility  may 
weary  of  all  save  a  being  whose  own,  for 
ever  in  motion,  appears  like  a  heaven,  now 
•clear  and  smiling,  now  shadowed  in  threaten- 
ing clouds.  Oswald,  ever  truly,  deeply  at- 
tached, "was  not  the  less  6ften  on  the  brink  of 
abjuring  the  object  of  his  tenderness,  because 
long  habit  had  persuaded  him  that  he  could 
find  nothing  but  remorse  in  the  too  vivid  feel- 
ings of  the  heart. 

On  their  way  to  Tivoli,  they  passed  the^ru- 
ins  of  Adrian's  palace,  and  the  immense  gar- 
den that  surrounded  it.  Here  were  collected 
the  rarest  productions  of  the  realms  conquer- 
ed by  Rome.  There  are  still  seen  the  scat- 
tered stones  called  Egypt,  India,  and  Asia. 
Farther  off  is  the  retreat  where  Zenobia  end- 
ed her  days.  The  queen  of  Palmyra  sus- 
tained not,  in  adversity,  the  greatness  of  her 
doom  :  she  knew  neither  how  to  die  for  glory, 
like  a  man,  nor  how,  like  a  woman,  to  die 
rather  than  .betray  her  friend.  At  last  they 
beheld  Tivoli,  once  the  abode  of  Brutus,  Au- 
gustus, Maecenas,  Catullus,  but,  above  all, 
Horace,  whose  verses  have  immortalized 
these  scenes.  Corinne's  villa  stood  near  the 
loud  cascade  of  Teverone.  On  the  top  of 
the  hill,  facing  her  garden,  was  the  Sibyl's 
temple.  The  ancients,  by  building  these 
fanes  on  heights  like  this,  suggested  the  due 
Superiority  of  religion  over  all  other  pursuits. 
They  bid  you  "  look  from  nature  up  to  nature's 
God,"  and  tell  of  the  gratitude  that  successive 
generations  have  paid  to  heaven.  The  land- 
scape, seen  from  whatever  point,  includes  this 
its  central  ornament.  Such  ruins  remind  one 
not  of  the  work  of  man.  They  harmonize 
with  the  fair  trees  and  lonely  torrent,  that 
emblem  of  the  years  which  have  made  them 
what  they  are.  The  most  beauteous  land 
that  awoke  no  memory  of  great  events,  would 
be  uninteresting,  compared  to  the  spots  that 
history  sanctifies.  What  place  could  more 
appropriately  have  been  selected  as  the  home 
of  Corinne  than  that  consecrated  to  the  Sibyl, 
a  woman  divinely  inspired  ?  The  house  v?as 
charming ;  decked  in  all  the  elegance  of  mo- 


dern taste,  yet  evidently  by  a  classic  hand 
You  saw  that  its  mistress  understood  felicity 
in  its  highest  signification  ;  that  which  implies 
all  that  can  ennoble,  while  it  excites  our 
minds.  A  sighing  melody  now  stole  on  Os- 
wald's ear,  as  if  the  nodding  flowers  and  wav- 
ing shrubs  thus  lent  a  voice  to  nature.  Co- 
rinne informed  him  that  it  proceeded  from  the 
^Eolian  harps,  which  she  had  hung  in  her 
grottoes,  adding  music  to  the  perfume  of  the 
air.  Her  lover  was  entranced.  "  Corinne," 
he  cried,  throwing  himself  at  her  feet,  "  till 
to-day  I  have  censured  mine  own  bliss  beside 
thee  ;  but  now  I  feel  as  if  the  prayers  of 
mine  offended  parent  had  vfon  me  all  this  fa- 
vor :  the  chaste  repose  I  here  enjoy  tells  me 
that  I  am  pardoned.  Fearlessly,  then,  unite 
thy  fate  with  mine  :  there  is  no  danger  now  !" 
"  Well,"  she  replied,  "  let  us  not  disturb  this 
peace  by  naming  Fate.  Why  strive  to  gain 
more  than  she  ever  grants  1  Why  seek  for 
change  while  we  are  happy  ?"  He  was  hurt 
by  this  reply.  He  thought  she  should  have 
understood  his  readiness  to  confide,  to  promise, 
all.  This  evasion,  then,  offended  and  afflict- 
ed him  :  he  appreciated  not  the  delicacy 
which  forbade  Corinne  to  profit  by  his  weak- 
ness. Besides,  where  we  really  love,  we 
often  dread  more  than  we  desire  the  solemn 
moment  that  exchanges  hope  for  certainty. 
Oswald,  however,  concluded  that,  much  as 
she  loved  him,  she  preferred  her  independence, 
and  therefore  shunned  an  indissoluble  tie. 
Irritated  by  Ihis  impression,  he  followed  her 
to  the  gallery  in  frigid  silence  She  guessed 
his  mood,  but  knew  his  pride  too  well  to  tell 
him  so  ;  yet,  with  a  vague  design  of  soothing 
him,  she  lent  even  to  general  and  indifferent 
topics  the  softest  tones  of  affection. 

Her  gallery  was  composed  of  historical, 
poetic,  religious  subjects,  and  landscapes. 
None  of  them  contained  any  great  number  of 
figures.  Crowded  pictures  are,  doubtless,  ar- 
duous tasks  ;  but  their  beauties  are  mostly 
either  too  confused  or  too  detailed.  Unity  of 
interest,  that  vital  principle  of  art,  as  of  all 
things,  is  necessarily  frittered  away.  The 
first  picture  represented  Brutus,  sitting  lost 
in  thought,  at  the  foot  of  the  statue  of  Rome, 
while  slaves  bore  by  the  dead  bodies  of  the 
sons  he  had  condemned  :  on  the  other  side, 
their  mothers  and  sisters  stood  in  frantic  de- 
spair, fortuuately  excused,  by  their  sex,  from 
that  courage  which  sacrifices  the  affections. 
The  situation  of  Brutus,  beneath  the  statue 
of  Rome,  tells  all.  But  how,  without  expla- 
nation, can  we  know  tlut  this  is  Brutus,  or 
that  those  are  his  children,  whom  he  himself 
has  sentenced  1  and  yet  the  event  cannot  be 
better  set  forth  by  any  painting.  Rome  fills 
its  back-ground,  as  yet  unornamented  as  a 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


67 


city,  grand  only  as  the  country  that  could  in- 
spire such  heroism      4i  Once  hear  the  name," 
said  Corinne,  "  and  doubtless  your  whole  soul 
.    is  given  up  to  it ;  otherwise  might  not  uncer- 
|    tainty  have  converted  a  pleasure  which  ought 
to  be  so  plain  and  so  easy  into  an  abstruse 
enigma  i     I  chose  the  subject,  as  recalling 
the  most  terrible  deed  a  patriot  ever  dared. 
The  next  is  Marius,  taken  by  one  of  the  Cim- 
bri,  who  cannot  resolve  to  kill  so  great  a  man. 
Marius,  indeed,  is  an  imposing  figure  ;    the 
costume   and  physiognomy  of  the   Cimbrian 
leader  extremely  picturesque  :  it  marks  the 
second  era  of  Rome,  when  laws  were  no  more, 
but  when  genius  still  exerted  a  vast  control. 
Next  come  the  days  in  which  glory  led  but  to 
misfortune  and  insult.     The   third  picture  is 
|  Belisarius,  bearing  his  young  guide,  who  had 
|  expired  while  asking  alms  for  him  ;   thus  is 
the  blind  hero  recompensed  by  his  master  ; 
and  in  the  world  he  vanquished  hath  no  better 
office  than  that  of  carrying  to  the  grave  the 
sad  remains  of  yon  poor  boy,  his  only  faithful 
friend.     Since  the  old  school,  I  have  seen  no 
truer  figure  than  that :  the  painter,  like  the 
poet,  has  loaded  him  with  all  kinds  of  mise- 
ries— too  many,  it  may  be,  for  compassion. 
But  what  tells  us  that  it  is  Belisarius  ?  what 
:  fidelity   to  history   is   exacted   both  of  artist 
h  and   spectator!  a  fidelity,  by  the  way,  often 
,|  ruinous  to  the  beautiful.     In  Brutus  we  look 
|j  on  virtues  that  resemble  crime  ;  in  Marius, 
o-i  fame  causing  but  distress  ;  in  Belisarius, 
on  services  requited  by  the  blackest  persecu- 
tion.    Near  these  I  have  hung  two  pictures 
that  console  the  oppressed  spirit  by  reminding 
it  of  the  piety  that  can  cheer  the  broken  heart, 
!  when   all   around   is   bondage.     The  first  is 
i  Albano's   infant   Christ   asleep   on   a   cross. 
j  Does  not  that  stainless,  smiling  face  convince 
j  us  that  heavenly  faith  hath  naught  to  fear 
I  from  grief  or  death  ]     The  following  one  is 
Titian's  Jesus  bending  under  the  weight  of 
the  cross.     His  mother  on  her  knees  before 
him  :  what  a  proof  of  reverence  for  the  unde- 
served oppressions  suffered  by  her  Divine  Son ! 
What  a  look  of  resignation  is  his!  yet  what 
an  air  of  pain,  and  therefore  sympathy,  with 
!  us  !     That  is  the  best  of  all  my  pictures  ;  to 
i  that  I  turn  my  eyes  with  rapture  iivexhausti- 
j  ble  ;  and  now  come  my  dramatic  chefs -d'czu- 
j    vres  drawn  from  the  works  of  four  great  poets. 
1 1  There  is  the  meeting  of  Dido  and  ^3Lneas  in 
the    Elysian    fields :  ,  her    indignant    shade 
a  voids  him  ;  rejoicing  to  be  freed  from  the  fond 
heart  which  yet  would  throb  at  his  approach. 
The  vaporous  color  of  the  phantoms,  and  the 
pale  scenes  around  them,  contrast  the  air  of 
|  life  in  jEneas,  and  the  Sibyl  who  conducts 
I  him  ;  but  in  these  attempts  the  bard's  descrip- 
tion must  far  transcend  all  that  the  pencil 


reaches  ;  in  this  of  the  dying  Clorinda  oui 
tears  are  claimed  by  the  remembered  lines  cf 
Tasso,  where  she  pardons  the  beloved  Tan- 
cred,  who  had  just  dealt  her  the  mortal  wound. 
Painting  inevitably  sinks  beneath  poetry 
when  devoted  to  themes  that  great  authors 
have  already  treated.  One  glance  back  at 
their  words  effaces  all  before  us.  Their  fa- 
vorite situations  gain  force  from  impassioned 
eloquence  ;  while  picturesque  effect  is  most 
favored  by  moments  of  repose,  worthy  to  be 
indefinitely  prolonged,  and  too  perfect  for  the 
eye  ever  to  weary  of  their  grace.  Your  ter- 
rific Shakspeare,  my  Lord,  afforded  me  the 
ensuing  subject.  The  invincible  Macbeth, 
about  to  fight  Macduff,  learns  that  the  witches 
have  equivocated  with  him  ;  that  Birnam  wood 
is  coming  to  Dunsinane,  and  that  his  adver- 
sary was  not  of  woman  born,  but  torn  from 
his  dying  mother.  Macbeth  is  subdued  by 
his  fate,  not  by  his  foe ;  his  desperate  hand 
still  grasps  its"  glaive,  certain  that  he  must 
fall,  yet  to  the  last  opposing  human  strength 
against  the  might  of  demons.  There  is  a 
world  of  fury  and  of  troubled  energy  in  that 
countenance  :  but  how  many  of  the  poet's 
beauties  do  we  lose  !  Can  we  paint  Macbeth 
hurried  into  crime  by  the  dreams  of  ambition, 
conjured  up  by  the  powers  of  sorcery  1  How  j 
express  a  terror  compatible  with  intrepidity  ; 
how  characterize  the  superstition  that  op-  j 
presses  him  ?  the  ignoble  credulity,  which, 
even  while  he  feels  such  scorn  of  life,  forces 
on  him  such  horror  of  death  !  Doubtless  the 
human  face  is  the  greatest  of  all  mysteries  ; 
vet,  fixed  on  canvass,  it  can  hardly  tell  of 
more  than  one  sensation  ;  no  struggle,  no  suc- 
cessive contrasts  accessible  to  dramatic  art, 
can  painting  give,  as  neither  time  nor  motion 
exists  for  her. 

"  Racine's  Phedra  forms  the  fourth  picture. 
Hippolitus.,  in  all  the  beauty  of  youth  and  in- 
nocence, repulses  the  perfidious  accusations 
of  his  stepmother.  The  heroic  Theseus  still 
protects  his  guilty  wife,  whom  his  conquering 
arms  surround.  Phedra's  visage  is  agitated 
by  impulses  that  we  freeze  to  look  on  ;  and 
her  remorseless  nurse  encourages  her  in  guilt. 
Hippolitus  is  here  even  more  lovely  thar  k 
Racine  ;  more  like  to  Meleager,  as  no  love 
for  Aricia  here  seems  to  mingle  with  his 
tameless  virtue.  But  could  Phedra  have  sup- 
ported her  falsehood  in  such  a  presence  ?  No, 
she  must  have  fallen  at  his  feet :  a  vindictive 
woman  may  injure  him  she  loves  in  absence, 
but,  while  she  looks  on  him,  that  love  must 
triumph.  The  poet  never  brings  them  to- 
gether after  she  has  slandered  him.  The 
painter  was  obliged  to  oppose  them  to  each 
other ;  but  is  not  the  distinction  between 
the  picturesque  and  the  poetical  pr>ved  by 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


tbe  fact,  that  verse  copied  from  paintings  is 
worth  all  the  paintings  that  have  imitated  po- 
etry ?  Fancy  must  ever  precede  contempla- 
tion, as  it  does  in  the  growth  of  the  human 
mind." 

While  Corinne  spoke  thus,  she  had  fre- 
quently paused,  hoping  that  Oswald  would  add 
his  remarks  ;  but  wounded  as  his  feelings 
were,  by  what  had  occurred,  he  uttered  not  a 
word,  only  when  she  expressed  some  touch- 
ing thought,  he  would  sigh  and  turn  away  his 


rude  winds  war  on  their  lifeless  and  withered 
arms,  strew  their  sear  leaves  to  the  gale,  and 
herald  the  course  of  the  storm."  Oswald,  till 
now,  had  cherished  his  resentment  ;  but  at 
the  sight  of  this  picture,  the  tomb  of  his  fa- 
ther, the  mountains  of  Scotland  rose  to  his 
view,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Corinne 
took  her  harp,  and  sung  one  of  those  simple 
Scotch  ballads  whose  notes  seem  fit  to  be 
borne  on  the  wailing  breeze.  It  was  the  sol- 
dier's farewell  to  his  country  and  his  love,  in 


head,  that  she  might  not  see  that  in  his  pre-  which  recurred  that  most  melodious  and  ex- 
sent  disposition  he  could  be  easily  moved,  pressive  of  English  phrases,  "No  more."* 
Corinne,  at  last  discouraged  by  this  silence,  !  Corinne  pronounced  it  so  touchingly,  that  Os- 
sut  down  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  Os-  j  wald  could  resist  no  longer  ;  and  they  wept 
wald  hastily  paced  the  apartment,  and  was  j  together.  "Ah,  Corinne!"  he  cried,  "does 
just  about  to  give  his  emotions  way,  when, 'then  my  country  affect  your  heart]  Could 
with  a  sudden  check  of  pride,  he  turned  to-  j  you  go  with  me  to  the  land  peopled  by  my  re- 


wards'the  pictures,  as  if  expecting  her  to  fin-. j  collections  ?  Would  you  theie  be  the  worthy 
ish  the  account  of  them.  She  had  great  hope  !  partner  of  my  life,  as  you  are  here  its  enchan- 
in  the  last ;  and,  making  an  effort  to  compose  j  tress  !"  "  I  believe  I  could,"  she  answered, 


herself,  rose,  saying,  "  My  Lord,  there  remain  j "  for  I  love  you."  "  In  the  name  of  love  and 
but  three  landscapes  for  me  to  show  you  ;  two  j  pity  then,  have  no  more  secrets  from  me." 
possess  some  interest.  I  do  not  like  rural  j "  Your  will  shall  be  obeyed,  Oswald  :  I  pro- 
scenes  that  bear  no  allusion  to  fable  or  his-  :  mke  it  on  onefcondition,  that  you  a-sk  not  its 
tory  :  they  are  insipid  as  the  idols  of  our  po-  :  fulfilment  before  the  termination  of  our  ap- 
ets.  I  prefer  Salvator  Rosa's  style  here,  i  preaching  religious  solemnities.  Is  not  the 
which  gives  you  rocks,  torrents,  and  trees,  >  support  of  Heaven  more  than  ever  necessary 
with  not  even  the 
mind  you  of  life  ! 
the  midst  of  nature 

tions.     What  is  this  deserted  scene,  so  vainly  j  think  so,"  she  rejoined  :  "  but  I  have  no  such 

confidence,  therefore  indulge  my  weakness." 
Oswald  sighed,  without  granting  or  refusing 


wing  of  a  bird  visible  to  re-  I  at  the  moment  which  must  decide  iny  fate  ?" 
!  The  absence  of  man,  in  j"  Corinne,"  he  said,  "  if  thy  fate  depends  on 
re,  excites  profound  reflec-  jme  it  shall  no  longer  be  a  sad  one."  "You 


beautiful,  whose  mysterious  charms  address 
but  the  eye  of  their  Creator  ]  Here,  on  the 
contrary,  history  and  poesy  are  happily  united 
in  a  landscape.  (21)  This  represents  the  mo- 
ment when  Cincinnatus  is  invited  by  the  con- 
suls to  quit  his  plough,  and  take  command  of 
the  Roman  armies.  All  the  luxury  of  the 
South  is  seen,  in  this  picture, — abundant  vege- 
tation, burning  sky,  and  an  universal  air  of 
joy,  that  pervades  even  the  aspect  of  the 
plants.  Seewhatacontrastisbeside.it.  The 
son  of  Cairbar  sleeps  upon  his  father's  tomb. 
Three  nights  he  awaited  the  bard,  who  comes 
to  honor  the  dead.  His  form  is  beheld  afar, 
he  descends  the  mountain's  side.  On  the 
clouds  floats  the  shade  of  the  chief.  The 
land  is  hoary  with  ice  ;  and  the  trees,  as  the 


the  delay  she  asked.  "  Let  us  return  to 
Rome  now,"  she  added.  "  I  should  tell  you 
all  in  this  solitude  ;  and  if  what  I  have  to  say 
must  drive  you  from  me, — need  it  be  so  soon  1 
Come,  Oswald  ;  you  may  revisit  this  scene 
when  my  ashes  repose  here."  Melted  and 
agitated,  he  obeyed.  On  their  road  they 
scarcely  spoke  a  word,  but  now  and  then  ex- 
changed looks  of  affection  ;  yet  a  heavy  mel- 
ancholy oppressed  them  both,  as  they  re-en- 
tered Rome. 


*  I  presume  the   "  Adieu  to  Lochaber,"  though  in  that 
it  ia  "  nae  mair  " — TT*. 


CORINNE  ;   OR,  ITAI^Y. 


BOOK      IX. 


ON       THE       CARNIVAL       AND       ITALIAN       MUSJC 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  last  day  of  the  carnival  is  the  gayest 
in  the  year.  The  Roman  populace  carry  their 
rage  for  amusement  to  a  perfect  fever,  unex- 
ampled elsewhere.  The  whole  town  is  dis- 
guised ;  the  very  gazers  from  its  windows 
are  masked.  This  begins  regularly  to  the 
appointed  day,  neither  public  nor  private  af- 
fairs interfering  with  its  indulgence.  It  is 
there  that  one  may  judge  of  the  imagination 
possessed  by  the  mass  of  the  people.  Italian 
sounds  sweetly  even  from  their  mouths.  Al- 
fieri  said  he  went  to  the  market  of  Florence 
to  learn  good  Italian.  Rome  has  the  same 
advantage  ;  and,  perhaps,  these  are  the  only 
cities  of  which  all  the  natives  speak  so  well 
that  the  mind  is  feasted  at  every  corner  of  the 
streets.  The  kind  of  gaiety  that  shines 
through  their  harlequinades  is  often  found  in 
the  most  uneducated  men  ;  and  during  this 
festival,  while  exaggeration  and  caricature 
are  fair  play,  the  most  comic  scenes  perpetu- 
ally recur.  Often  a  grotesque  gravity  con- 
trasts .the  usually  vivacious  Italian  manner,  as 
if  their  strange  dresses  conferred  an  unnatu- 
ral dignity  on  the  wearers.  Sometimes  they 
evince  so  surprising  a  knowledge  of  the  my- 
thology, in  the  travesties  they  assume,  that 
one  might  suppose  them  still  believers  in  its 
fictions.  Most  frequently,  however,  they  ridi- 
cule the  various  ranks  of  society  with  a  plea- 
santry truly  original  :  the  nation  is  now  a 
thousand  times  more  distinguished  by  its 
sports  than  by  its  history.  Italian  lends  itself 
so  easily  to  all  kinds  of  playfulness,  that  it 
needs  but  a  slight  inflection  of  voice,  a  little 
difference  of  termination,  lengthening  or  di- 
minishing the  words,  to  change  the  entire 
meaning  of  a  sentence.  The  language  comes 
with  a  peculiar  grace  from  the  lips  of  child- 
hood. The  innocence  of  that  age,  and  the 
natural  archness  of  the  southern  tongue,  ex- 
quisitely contrast  each  other.  (22)  One  may 
almost  call  it  a  language  that  talks  of  itself, 
and  always  seems  more  witty  than  its  speak- 
ers. 


There  is  neither  splendor  nor  taste  in  the 
carnival :  its  universal  tumult  assimilates  it  in 
the  fancy  with  the  bacchanalian  orgies  ;  but 
in  the  fancy  only  ;  for  the  Romans  are  gene- 
'  rally  sober  and  serious  enough — the  last  days 
of  this  fete  excepted.  Then  one  makes  such 
varied  and  sudden  discoveries  in  their  charac- 
ter, as  have  contributed  to  give  them  a  reputa- 
tion for  cunning.  Doubtless,  there  is  a  great 
habit  of  feigning  among  a  people  who  have 
borne  so  many  yokes  ;  but  we  mustnot  always 
attribute  their  rapid  changes  of  manner  to 
dissimulation.  An  inflammable  imagination 
is  often  its  cause.  Reasoning  people  may 
readily  preserve  their  consistency ;  but  all 
that  belongs  to  fancy  is  unpremeditated  ;  she 
overleaps  gradations  ;  a  trifle  may  wound  her, 
or  that  which  ought  to  move  her  most  be  past 
by  with  indifference ;  she  is  her  own  world, 
and  in  it  there  is  no  calculating  effects  by 
causes.  For  instance,  we  wonder  what  en- 
tertainment the  Roman  nobles  find  in  driving 
from  one  end  of  the  Corso  to  the  other  for 
hours  together,  every  day  in  the  year,  yet  no- 
thing breaks  in  on  this  custom.  Among  the 
masks,  too,  may  be  found  wandering  victims 
to  ennui,  packed  up  in  the  drollest  of  dresses, 
sad  harlequins,  and  silent  clowns,  who  satisfy 
their  carnival  conscience  by  merely  seeking 
to  divert  themselves. 

In  Rome  they  have  one  kind  of  maskers, 
that  nowhere  else  exist,  who  in  their  own 
persons,  copy  the  antique  statues,  and  from  a 
distance  perfectly  realise  their  beauty.  Many 
of,  the  women  are  losers  by  renouncing  this 
disguise.  Nevertheless,  to  behold  life  imitat- 
ing motionless  marble,  however  gracefully, 
strikes  one  with  fear.  The  carriages  of  the 
great  and  gay  throng  the  streets ;  but  the 
charm  of  these  festivities  is  their  saturnalian 
confusion  :  all  classes  are  mingled ;  the  gravest 
magistrates  ride  among  the  masks  with  almost 
official  assiduity.  All  the  windows  are  deco- 
rated, and  all  the  world  out  of  doors  :  the 
pleasure  of  the  populace  consists  not  in  their 
spectacles  nor  their  feasts  ;  they  commit  no 
excess,  but  revel  solely  in  the  delight  of  mix- 


7C 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


ing  freely  with  their  betters,  who,  on  their 
pirns,  are  as  diverted  at  finding  themselves 
hrovvn  among  those  beneath  them.  More  re- 
fined and  delicate  tastes  and  more  finished 
education  ,can  only  sustain  barriers  between 
different  classes.  But  Italy,  as  hath  been 
said,  is  more  distinguished  by  universal  talent 
than  by  its  cultivation  among  the  aristocracy. 
Therefore,  during  the  carnival,  all  minds  and 
all  manners  blend:  the  shouting  crowds  that 
indiscriminately  shower  their  bonbons  on  the 
passers  by  confound  the  whole  nation  pell-mell, 
as  if  no  social  order  remained  Corinne  and 
Nelvil  arrived  in  the  midst  of  this  uproar  :  at 
first  it  stunned  them ;  for  nothing  appears 
stranger  than  such  activity  of  noisy  enjoyment, 
while  the  soul  is  pensively  retired  within  her- 
self. They  stopped  in  the  Piazza  del  Popolo, 
to  ascend  the  amphitheatre  near  the  obelisk, 
thence  to  overlook  the  horse-racing  :  as  they 
alighted  from  their  calash,  the  Count  d'Erfeuil 
perceived  them,  and  took  Oswald  aside,  say- 
ing, "  How  can  you  show  yourself  thus  pub- 
licly returning  from  the  country  with  Corinne  1 
You  will  commit  her,  and  then  what  can  you 
do!"  "  I  think  I  shall  not  commit  her,"  re- 
turned he,  "  by  showing  my  affection  ;  if  I  do, 
I  shall  be  but  too  happy,  in  the  devotion  of  my 
life — "'  "  Happy  !"  interrupted  d'Erfeuil  ; 
"  don't  believe  it !  one  can  only  be  happy  in 
becoming  situations.  Society,  do  what  we 
will,  has  a  great  influence  ;  and  what  society 
would  disapprove  ought  never  to  be  attempt- 
ed." "Then,"  replied  Oswald,  "our  own 
thoughts  and  feelings  are  to  guide  us  less  than 
the  words  of  others.  If  it  were  our  duty 
thus  constantly  to  follow  the  million,  what 
need  has  any  individual  of  a  heart  or  a  soul  ? 
Providence  might  have  spared  us  such  super- 
fluities." "  Very  philosophical,"  replied  the 
Count ;  "  but  such  maxims  ruin  a  man  ;  and 
when  love  is  ever,  he  is  left  to  the  censure  of 
the  world.  Flighty  as  you  think  me,  I  would 
not  risk  it,  on  any  account.  We  may  allow 
ourselves  the  little  freedoms  and  good-natured 
jests  of  independent  thinkers,  but  in  our  ac- 
tions such  liberties  become  serious."  "  And 
are  not  love  and  happiness  serious  considera- 
tions 1"  asked  Nelvil.  "  That  is  nothing  to 
the  purpose :  there  are  certain  established 
forms  which  you  cannot  brave  without  passing 
for  an  eccentric  ;  for  a  man — in  fact — you 
understand  me — unlike  other  men . "  Lord  Nel- 
vil smiled,  and  without  either  pain  or  dis- 
pleasure rallied  d'Erfeuil  on  his  frivolous 
severity  :  he  rejoiced  to  feel,  for  the  fifst  time, 
that  on  a  subject  which  had  cost  him  so  much, 
the  Count's  advice  had  not  the  slightest  power. 
Corinne  guessed  what  had  passed,  but  Oswald's 
smile  restored  her  composure  :  and  this  con- 
versation tended  but  to  put  them  both  in  spirits 


for  the  fete.  Nelvil  expected  to  see  a  race 
like  those  of  England  ;  but  was  surprised  to 
learn  that  small  Barbary  steeds  were  about  to 
make  the  contest  of  speed  without  riders. 
This  is  a  very  favorite  sport  with  the  Romans. 
When  it  was  about  to  commence,  the  crowd 
ranged  themselves  on  each  side  of  the  street. 
The  Place,  late  so  thronged,  was  emptied  in  a 
minute  :  every  one  hurried  to  the  stands  which 
surrounded  the  obelisks  ;  while  a  multitude  of 
black  heads  and  eyes  were  turned  towards  the 
barrier  from  which  the  barbs  were  to  start. 
They  appeared,  without  bridle  or  saddje,  their 
backs  covered  by  bright-hued  stuffs :  they 
were  led  by  well-dressed  grooms,  passionately 
interested  in  their  success.  As  the  animals 
reach  the  barrier,  their  eagerness  for  release 
is  almost  uncontrollable  :  they  rear,  neigh,  and 
paw  the  earth,  as  if  impatient  for  the  glory 
they  are  about  to  win,  without  the  aid  or 
guidance  of  man.  Their  prancing,  and  the 
rapturous  cry  of  "  Room,  room  !"  as  the  bar- 
rier falls,  have  a  perfectly  theatrical  effect. 
The  grooms  are  all  voice  and  gesture,  as  long 
as  their  steeds  remain  in  sight ;  the  creatures 
are  as  jealous  as  mankind  of  one  another  ;  the 
sparks  fly  beneath  their  feet ;  their  manes  float 
wildly  on  the  breeze  ;  and  such  is  their  desire 
to  reach  the  goal,  that  some  have  fallen  there 
dead.  To  look  on  these  free  things,  all  ani- 
mated by  personal  passion,  is  astounding — as 
if  one  beheld  Thought  itself  flying  in  that  fine 
shape.  The  crowd  break  their  ranks  as  the 
horses  pass,  and  follow  them  in  tumult.  The 
Venetian  palace  ends  the  race  ;  then  may  be 
heard  exclamations  of  disappointment  from 
those  whose  horses  have  been  beaten  ;  while 
he  whose  darling  has  deserved  the  greatest 
prize  throws  himself  on  his  knees  before  the 
victor,  thanking  and  recommending  hhn  to  St. 
Anthony,  patron  of  the  brute  creation,  with 
an  enthusiasm  as  seriously  felt  as  it  is  comi- 
cally expressed.  The  races  usually  conclude 
the  day.  Then  begins  another  kind  of  amuse- 
ment, less  attractive,  but  equally  loud.  The 
windows  are  illuminated ;  the  guards  leave 
their  posts,  to  share  the  general  joy.  Every 
one  carries  a  little  torch,  called  mocolio,  and 
every  one  tries  to  extinguish  his  neighbor's, 
repeating  the  word  "  ammazare"  (kill),  with 
formidable  vivacity.  ("  Che  la  bella  princi- 
pessa  sia  ammazata !  Che  il  signore  abbala 
sia  arAmazato  .'")  "  Kill  the  fair  princess  ! 
let  the  Lord  Abbot  be  killed  !'  The  multitude, 
secure  by  the  interdiction  of  horses  and  car- 
ri  s  at  that  hour,  pour  forth  from  every 
quarter  :  all  is  turmoil  and  clamor  ;  yet,  as 
night  advances,  this  ceases  by  degrees :  the 
deepest  silence  succeeds.  The  remembrance 
of  this  evening  is  like  that  of  a  confused  vision, 
which,  for  awhile,  changed  eveiy  dreamer's 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


71 


existence,  and  made  the  people  forget  their 
toil,  the  learned  their  studied,  and  the  nobles 
their  sloth. 


CHAPTER  II. 

OSWALD,  since  his  misfortunes,  had  never 
regained  sufficient  courage  voluntarily  to  hear 
music.  He  dreaded  those  ravishing  sounds, 
so  soothing  in  melancholy,  but  which  prove 
so  truly  painful  while  we  are  weighed  down 
by  real  calamities.  Music  revives  the  recol- 
lections we  would  appease.  When  Corinne 
sang,  Oswald  listened  to  the  words  she  pro- 
nounced ;  gazed  on  her  expressive  features, 
and  thought  of  nothing  but  her.  Yet  if,  of.an 
evening,  in  the  streets,  he  heard  several  voices 
united  to  sing  the  sweet  airs  of  celebrated 
composers,  as  is  often  the  case  in  Italy,  though 
inclined  to  pause,  he  soon  withdrew,  alarmed 
by  the  strong  yet  indefinite  emotion  which 
renewed  his  sorrows.  But  a  concert  was 
about  to  be  given  at  the  theatre  of  Rome, 
concentrating  the  talents  of  the  first  singers  in 
Italy.  Corinne  asked  Nelvil  to  accompany 
her  thither  :  he  consented,  hoping  that  her 
presence  would  soften  all  the  pangs  he  must 
endure.  On  entering  her  box,  she  was  imme- 
diately recognized  ;  and  a  remembrance  c/i  r.er 
coronation,  adding  to  the  interest  she  usually 
created,  all  parts  of  the  house  resounded  with 
applause,  and  cries  of  "  Viva  Corinne  .'"  The 
musicians  themselves,  electrified  by  this  unani- 
mous sensation,  sent  forth  strains  of  victory  ; 
for  triumph,  of  whatever  kind,  awakens  in 
our  recollection  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of 
war.  Corinne  was  much  moved  by  these 
testimonies  of  admiration  and  good  will.  The 
indescribable  impression  always  made  by  a  hu- 
man mass,  simultaneously  expressing  the  same 
sentiment,  so  deeply  touched  her  heart,  that 
she  could  not  restrain  her  tears :  her  bosom 
heaved  beneath  her  dress ;  and  Oswald,  with 
a  sense  of  pique,  whispered,  "  You  must  not, 
madame,  be  withdrawn  from  such  successes  ; 
they  outvalue  love,  since  they  make  your  heart 
beat  thus  ;"  he  then  retired  to  the  back  of  the 
box,  without  waiting  for  her  answer.  In  one 
instant  had  he  swept  away  all  the  pleasure 
which  she  had  owed  to  a  reception  prized 
most  because  he  was  its  witness. 

The  concert  commenced  :  those  who  have 
not  heard  Italian  singing  can  form  no  idea  of 
music.  The  human  voice  is  soft  and  sweet  as 
the  iiowers  and  skies.  This  charm  was  made 


but  for  such  a  clime  :  each  reflects  the  other. 
The  world  is  the  work  of  a  single  thought, 
expressed  in  a  thousand  different  ways.  The 
Italians  have  ever  devotedly  loved  music. 
Dante,  in  his  Purgatory,  meets  the  best  singer 
of  his  day,  and  asks  him.  for  one  of  his  deli- 
cious airs.  The  entranced  spirits  forget  them- 
selves as  they  hear  it,  Wtil  their  guardian 
recalls  the.ni.  The  Christians,  like  the  Pa- 
gans, have  extended  the  empire  of  music  be- 
yond the  grave.  Of  all  the  fine  arts,  none 
act  so  immediately  upon  the  soul :  the  others 
direct  it  towards  such  of  such  ideas  ;  but  this 
alone  addresses  the  very  source  of  life,  and  ( 
transforms  the  whole  being  at  once,  humanly 
speaking,  as  Divine  Grace  is  said  to  change 
the  heart.  Among  all  our  presentiments  of 
futurity,  those  to  which  melody  gives  birth 
are  not  the  least  worthy  of  reverence.  Even 
the  mirth  excited  by  buffo  singing  is  not  vul- 
gar, but  fanciful ;  beneath  it  lie  poetic  reve- 
ries, such  as  spoken  wit  never  yet  created. 
Music  is  so  volatile  a  pleasure, — we  are  so. 
sensible  that  it  escapes  from  us  even  as  we 
enjoy  it, — that  it  always  leaves  a  tender  im- 
pression on  the  mind ;  yet,  when  expressive 
of  grief,  it  sheds  gentleness  even  over  despair. 
Music  is  so  fleeting  a  pleasure, — one  which  we 
lose  as  we  enjoy,  that  a  shade  of  melancholy 
is  always  mingled  with  the  gaiety  which  it 
causes.  Yet,  when  it  expresses  grief,  there 
is  still  something  soothing  in  it — the  heart 
beats  quicker  as  we  listen,  and  the  regular 
rlow  of  its  measures,  in  reminding  us  of  the 
brevity  of  time,  calls  on  us  to  enjoy  it.  There 
is  no  void,  life  is  full,  the  current  of  the  blood  ' 
is  rapid,  we  feel  all  the  excitement  of  active 
existence,  without  encountering  its  obstacles. 
Music  doubles  our  conception  of  the  faculties 
of  the  soul,  and  makes  us  feel  capable  of  the 
noblest  efforts  ;  teaches  us  to  march  towards 
death  with  enthusiasm,  and  is  happily  power- 
less to  express  any  low  sentiment,  any  artifice, 
any  falsehood.  Music  lifts  from  the  breast 
the  weight  it  so  often  feels  beneath  serious 
affections,  and  which  we  confound  with  our 
very  consciousness  of  existence,  so  habitual  is 
its  pressure  ;  a,s  we  listen  to  pure  and  delicious 
sounds,  we  seem  to  discover  the  secret  of  the 
Creator,  and  penetrate  the  mystery  of  life 
No  words  can  explain  this ;  for  words  bur 
copy  primitive  sensations,  as  prose  translators 
follow  poetry.  Looks  alone  can  give  an  idea 
of  this  effect ;  the  long  look  9?  love,  that 
gradually  penetrates  into  the  heart,  till  one's 
eyes  fall,  unable  to  support  so  vast  a  bliss  ; — 
so  would  a  ray  from  the  life  to  come  constims 
the  mortal  who  should  steadily  contemplate  it. 
The  admirable  union  of  two  voices,  per- 
fectly in  tune,  produces  an  ecstasy  that  cannot 
be  prolonged  without  a  degree  of  pain  :  it  is  3 


72 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


blessing  too  great  for  humanity,  and  the  heart 
vibrates  as  if"  to  break  too  perfect  a  harmony. 
Oswald  had  remained  perversely  apart  from 
Coriime  during  the  first  act  of  the  concert ; 
but  when  the  duets  began  in  low  voices, 
accompanied  by  the  notes  of  the  wind  instru- 
ments, purer  even  than  the  voice  itself,  Co- 
rinne  veiled  her  face,  absorbed  by  emotion  ; 
she  wept  without  suffering,  and  loved  without 
dread  ;  the  image  of  Oswald  was  in'her  bosom ; 
but  a  host  of  thoughts  wandered  too  far  to  be 
distinct,  even  to  herself.  It  is  said  that  a 
prophet,  in  one  moment,  passed  through  seven 
regions  of  heaven.  He  who  thus  conceived 
how  much  an  instant  might  contain,  must 
have  heard  sweet  music  beside  the  object 
of  his  love.  Oswald  felt  its  power;  his  re- 
sentment decreased :  the  tenderness  of  Co- 
rinne  explained  and  justified  everything ;  he 
drew  near  her ;  she  heard  him  breathing  near 
her,  at  the  most  enchanting  period  of  this 
celestial  harmony :  it  was  too  much  ;  the  most 
pathetic  tragedy  could  not  have  so  over- 
whelmed her  as  did  the  consciousness  of  the 
deep  emotion  which  at  the  same  moment 
penetrated  both  their  hearts  :  each  fresh  tone 
exalted  his  consciousness.  The  words  sung 
contributed  little  to  this  emotion ;  now  and 
then,  the  words  love  and  death  would  reach 
the  ear  and  give  a  direction  to  the  thoughts  ; 
but  oftener  did  music  alone  suggest  and  realise 
the  formless  wish,  as  doth  some  pure  and  tran- 
quil star,  wherein  we  seem  to  see  the  image 
of  all  we  could  desire  on  earth.  "  Let  us  go," 
sighed  Corinne  :  "  I  am  faint."  "  What  is  it  ] 
asked  Oswald,  anxiously  :  "  you  are  pale. 
Come  into  the  air  with  me,  come !"  They 
went  together  ;  her  strength  returned,  as  she 
leaned  upon  his  arm ;  and  she  faltered  forth, 
"  Dear  Oswald,  I  am  about  to  leave  you  for 
eight  days."  "What  say  you?"  he  cried. 
"  Every  year,"  she  answered,  "  I  spend  Pas- 
sion week  in  a  convent,  to  prepare  for  Easter." 
Oswald  could  not  oppose,  aware  that  most  of 
the  Roman  ladies  devoted  themselves  to  pious 
severities  at  that  time,  even  if  careless  of  reli- 
gion during  the  rest  of  the  year ;  but  he 
remembered  that  Corinne's  faith  and  his  own 
were  not  the  same  :  they  could  not  pray  to- 
gether. "  Why  are  you  not  my  countrywo- 
man 1"  he  exclaimed.  "  Our  souls  have  but 
one  country,"  she  replied.  "  True,"  he  said  ; 
"yet  I  cannot  the  less  feel  everything  that 
divides  us."  And  this  coming  absence  so 
dismayed  him,  that  neither  to  Corinne,  nor  the 
friends  who  now  joined  them,  could  he  speak 
another  word  that  evening. 


CHAPTER  III. 

OSWALD  called  at  Corinne's  house  early 
next  day,  in  some  uneasiness  :  her  maid  gave 
him  a  note,  announcing  her  mistress's  retire- 
ment to  the  convent  that  morning,  and  that 
she  could  not  see  him  till  after  Good  Friday. 
She  confessed  that  she  had  not  the  courage  to 
tell  him  the  whole  of  this  truth  the  night  be- 
fore. Oswald  was  struck  as  by  an  unexpected 
blow.  The  house  in  which  he  had  always 
found  Corinne  now  appeared  sadly  lone  :  her 
harp,  books,  drawings,  all  that  she  usually  had 
near  her  were  there,  but  she  was  gone.  A 
shudder  crept  through  his  veins  :  he  thought 
on  the  chamber  of  his  father,  and  oppressed 
with  the  recollection,  he  sunk  upon  a  seat. 
"  It  may  be,"  he  cried,  "  that  I  shall  live  to 
lose  her  too— that  animated  mind,  that  warm 
heart,  that  form  so  brilliantly  fresh  :  the  bolt 
may  strike,  and  the  tomb  of  youth  is  mute  as 
that  of  age.  What  an  illusion,  then,  is  happi- 
ness !  Inflexible  Time,  who  watches  ever  o'er 
his  prey,  may  tear  it  from  us  i$  a  moment 
Corinne!  Corinne!  why  didst  thou  leave  me? 
Thy  magic  alone  could  still  my  memory  : 
gloomy  thoughts  were  scattered  when  dazzled 
by  the  hours  of  rapture  passed  with  thee, — but 
now — I  am  alone.  1  am  again  my  wretched, 
wretched  self!"  He  called  upon  Corinne  with 
a  desperation  disproportionate  to  such  brief 
absence,  but  attributable  to  the  habitual  an- 
guish of  his  heart.  The  maid,  Theresina, 
heard  his  groans,  and  gratified  by  this  regret 
for  her  mistress,  re-entered,  saying,  "  My 
Lord,  for  your  consolation,  I  will  even  betray 
a  secret  of  my  lady's  :  I  hope  she  will  forgive 
me.  Come  to  her  bed-room,  and  you  shall 
see  your  own  portrait !"  "  My  portrait !"  he 
repeated.  "  Yes  ;  she  drew  it  from  memory, 
and  has  risen,  for  the  last  week,  at  five  in  the 
morning,  to  finish  it  before  she  went  to  the 
convent."  The  likeness  was  very  strong,  and 
painted  with  perfect  grace.  This  pledge,  in- 
deed, consoled  him :  placed  as  it  was  opposite 
an  exquisite  Madonna,  before  which  was  her 
oratory.  This  "  love  and  religion  mingled," 
exists  in  Italy  under  circumstances  far  more 
extraordinary  :  for  the  image  of  Oswald  was 
associated  but  with  the  purest  hopes  of  his 
adorer. 

Yet  thus  to  place  it  near  so  divine  an 
emblem,  and  to  prepare  herself  for  a  convent 
by  a  week  of  such  occupation,  were  traits  that 
rather  characterized  Corinne's  country  than 
herself.  Italian  women  are  devout  from  sen- 
sibility, not  principle  ;  and  nothing  was  more 
hostile  to  Oswald's  opinions  than  their  manner 
of  thinking  on  this  subject ;  yet  how  could  he 
blame  Corinne,  while  receiving  so  touching  a 
proof  of  her  affection  ]  IL>  looks  strayed 


CORJNNE  ;  OR,  ITALY 


73 


tenderly  through  this  chamber,  where  he  now 
stood  for  the  first  time.  At  the  head  of  the 
bed  he  beheld  the  miniature  of  an  aged  man, 
evidently  not  an  Italian  :  two  bracelets  hung 
near  it,  one  formed  by  braids  of  black  and 
silver  hair,  the  other  of  beautifully  fair  tresses, 
that,  by  a  strange  chance,  reminded  him  of 
Lucy  Edgarmond's,  which  he  had  attentively 
remarked  three  years  since.  Oswald  did  no't 
speak  ;  but  Theresina,  as  if  to  banish  any 
jealous  suspicion,  told  him,  "  that  during  the 
eleven  years  she  had  lived  with  her  lady  she 
had  always  seen  these  bracelets,  which  she 
knew  contained  the  hair  of  Corinne's  father, 
mother,  and  sister."  "  Eleven  years !"  cried 
Oswald  ;  "  you  were  then — "  he  checked  him- 
self, blushing  at  the  question  he  had  begun, 
and  precipitately  left  the  house  that  he  might 
not  be  tempted  to  pursue  his  inquiries.  He 
frequently  turned  back  to  gaze  on  the  win- 
dows, and  when  he  lost  sight  of  them  he  felt 
all  the  misery  of  solitude.  That  evening  he 
went  to  an  assembly,  in  search  of  something 
to  divert  his  thoughts  ;  for  in  grief,  as  joy, 
reverie  can  only  be  indulged  by  those  at  peace 
with  themselves  ;  but  society  was  insupporta- 
ble :  he  was  more  than  ever  convinced  that 
for  him  Corinne  alone  had  lent  it  charms,  by 
the  void  which  her  absence  rendered  it  now. 
He  attempted  to  chat  with  the  ladies,  who 
replied  by  those  insipid  phrases  which,  ex- 
pressing nothing,  are  so  convenient  for  those 


who  have   something  to  conceal.     He   saw 
groups  of  mer.,  who,  by  their  voices  and  ges-  1 
!  tures,  seemed  warmly  discussing  some  impor-  i 
tant  topic  :  he  drew  near,  and  found  the  matter 
of  their  discourse  as  despicable  as  its  manner. 
I  He  mused  over  this  causeless,  aimless,  viva- 
city, so  frequently  found  in  large  parties  : — 
though  indeed  Italian  mediocrity  is  tolerable 
1  enough,  having  but  h'ttle  jealous  vanity,  much 
;  regard  for  superior  minds,  and,  if  fatiguing 
;  them   by  dulness,   at   least   never   wounding 
i  them  by  pretence.     It  was  these  very  assem- 
j  blies  that,  a  few  days  since,  Oswald  had  found 
so  interesting.     The   slight"  obstacles  which 
I  this  company  opposed  to  his  conversation  with 
!  Corinne  ;  her  anxiety  to  be  near  him,  as  soon 
|  as  she  had  been  sufficiently  polite  to  others  ; 
I  the   intelligence   existing   between   them   on 
;  subjects   which   society  suggested   to  them ; 
her  pride,  in  speaking  before  him,  to  whom 
•  she  indirectly  addressed   remarks,  he   alone 
|  could  fully  understand  ; — all  this  had  varied 
!  his  evenings :  every  part  of  these  same  halls 
j  brought  back   the  pleasant  hours  which  had 
I  made  him  believe  that  these  assemblies  were 
in  themselves  agreeable.     "  Oh !"  he  sighed, 
as  he  left  it,  "  here,  as  elsewhere,  she  alone 
can  give  me  life ;  let  me  fly  rather  to  some 
desert  spot  till  she  returns.    I  shall  less  sadly 
feel  her  absence,  when  naught  is  near  me  that 
resembles  pleasure.' 


BOOK     X  . 

PASSION       WEEK. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OSWALD  passed  next  day  in  the  gardens  of 
the  monasteries,  going  first  to  that  of  the  Car- 
thusians, and  paused,  ere  he  entered,  to  ex- 
amine two  Egyptian  lions  at  a  little  distance 
from  its  gate.  There  is  something  in  their 
physiognomy  belonging  neither  to  animals  nor 
to  man  :  it  is  as  if  two  heathen  gods  had  been 
represented  in  this  shape.  This  convent  is 
built  on  the  ruins  of  Diocletian's  baths ;  and 
its  church  is  adorned  by  the  granite  pillars 
which  were  found  there.  The  monks  show 
this  place  with  much  zeal  :  they  belong  to  the 


world  but  by  their  interest  in  its  ruins.  Their 
way  of  life  presupposes  either  very  limited 
minds  or  the  most  exalted  piety.  The  mono- 
tony of  their  routine  recalls  that  celebrated 
line, — 

"Time  o'er  wrecked  world*  sleeps  motionless." 

Their  life  seems  but  to  be  employed  in  con- 
templating death.  Quickness  of  thought,  in  so 
uniform  an  existence,  would  be  the  oruelest  of 
tortures.  In  the  midst  of  the  cloister  stand 
two  cypresses,  whose  heavy  blackness  tne 
wind  can  scarcely  stir.  Near  them  is  an 


74 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


almost  unheard  fountain,  slow  and  chary  ; — fit 
hour-glass  for  a  seclusion  in  which  time  glides 
so  noiselessly.  Sometimes  the  moon's  pale 
glimmer  penetrates  these  shades — its  absence 
or  return  forming  quite  an  event  ;  and  yet 
these  monks  might  have  found  all  the  activity 
of  -.var  insufficient  for  their  spirits,  had  they 
been  used  to  it.  What  an  inexhaustible  field 
for  conjecture  we  find  in  the  combinations  of 
human  destiny !  What  habits  are  thrust  on 
us  by  chance,  forming  each  individual's  world 
and  history.  To  know  another  perfectly, 
would  cost  the  study  of  a  life.  What,  then, 
is  meant  by  knowledge  of  mankind  1  Governed 
they  may  be  by  each  other,  but  understood  by 
God  alone. 

Oswald  next  went  to  the  monastery  of 
Bonaventure,  built  on  the  ruins  of  Nero's 
palace  :  and  where  so  many  crimes  had 
reigned  remorselessly,  poor  friars,  tormented 
by  conscientious  scruples,  doom  themselves  to 
fasts  and  stripes  for  the  least  omission  of  duty. 
"  Our  only  hope,"  said  one,  "  is,  that,  when 
we  die,  our  faults  will  not  have  exceeded  our 
penances."  Nelvil,  as  he  entered,  stumbled 
over  a  trap,  and  asked  its  purpose.  "  It  is 
through  that  we  are  interred,"  answered  one 
of  the  youngest,  already  a  prey  to  the  bad  air. 
The  natives  of  the  South  fear  death  so  much, 
that  it  is  wondrous  to  find  there  these  per- 
petual mementos  :  yet  nature  is  often  fasci- 
nated by  what  she  dreads ;  and  such  an  intoxi- 
cation fills  the  soul  exclusively.  The  antique 
sarcophagus  of  a  child  serves  as  the  fountain 
of  this  institution.  The  boasted  palm  of  Rome 
is  the  only  tree  of  its  garden  ;  but  the  monks 
pay  no  attention  to  external  objects.  Their 
rigorous  discipline  allows  them  no  'mental 
liberty  ;  their  downcast  eyes  and  stealthy 
pace  show  that  they  have  forgotten  the  use  o'f 
free  will,  and  abdicated  the  government  of 
self, — an  empire  which  may  well  be  called  a 
'  heritage  of  woe  !'  This  retreat,  however, 
acted  but  feebly  on  the  mind  of  Oswald.  Im- 
agination revolts  at  so  manifest  a  desire  to 
remind  it  of  death  in  every  possible  way. 
When  such  remembrancers  are  unexpected, 
when  nature,  and  not  man,  suggests  them,  the 
impression  is  far  more  salutary.  Oswald  grew 
calmer  as  he  strayed  through  the  garden  of 
San  Giovanni  et  Paulo,  whose  brethren  are 
subjected  to  exercises  less  austere.  Their 
dwelling  lords  over  all  the  ruins  of  old  Rome. 
What  a  site  for  such  an  asylum!  The  recluse 
consoles  himself  for  his  nothingness,  in  con- 
templating the  wrecks  of  ages  past  away. 
Oswald  walked  long  benealh  the  shady  trees, 
so  rare  in  Italy  :  sometimes  they  intercepted 
TJS  view  of  the  city,  only  to  augment  the 
pleasure  of  his  next  glimpse  at  it.  All  the 
steeples  now  sounded  the  Ave  Maria, — 


*        *        *        "squilladelontano 
Che  paja  il  giorno  pianger,  che  si  muore. 


"  The  bell  frcm  far  mourneth  the  dying  day." 
This  evening  prayer  serves  to  reckon  the 
hours  by.  "  I  will  meet  you  an  hour  before, 
or  an  hour  after  Ave  Maria,"  say  the  Italians, 
so  devoutly  are  the  eras  of  night  and  day  dis- 
tinguished. Oswald  then  enjoyed  the  specta- 
cle of  sunset,  as  the  luminary  sunk  slowly 
amid  ruins,  and  seemed  submitting  to  decline, 
even  like  the  works  of  man.  This  brought 
back  all  his  wonted  thoughts.  The  image  of 
Corinne  appeared  too  promfsing,  too  hopeful, 
for  such  a  moment.  His  soul  sought  for  his 
father's,  in  the  home  of  heavenly  spirits.  His 
affection  sought  to  animate  the  clouds  on  which 
he  gazed,  and  to  lend  them  the  sublime  aspect 
of  his  immortal  friend  ;  he  seemed  to  hope 
that  his  prayers  at  last  might  call  down  some 
breath  of  pity,  resembling  a  father's  bene- 
diction. 


CHAPTER  II. 

OSWALD,  in  his  anxiety  to  study  the  religion 
of  the  country,  resolved  to  hear  some  of  its 
preachers,  during  Passion-week.  He  heavily 
counted  the  days  that  must  elapse  ere  his 
reunion  with  Corinne  :  while  she  was  away 
he  would  visit  no  objects  of  art ;  nothing 
which  owed  its  charm  to  the  imagination  ;  he 
could  forgive  himself  for  being  happy  only 
while  beside  her ;  but  all  that  charmed  him 
then  would  have  redoubled  the  pangs  of  his 
exile. 

It  is  at  night,  and  by  half-extinguished 
tapers,  that  the  preachers,  at  this  period,  hold 
forth.  All  the  women  are  in  black,  to  com- 
memorate the  death  of  Jesus :  there  is  some- 
thing very  affecting  in  these  yearly  weeds, 
that  have  been  renewed  for  so  many  centuries. 
One  enters  the  noble  churches  with  true 
emotion ;  their  tombs  prepare  us  for  serious 
thought,  but  the  preacher  too  often  dissipates 
all  this  in  an  instant.  His  pulpit  is  a  some- 
what long  tribunal,  from  one  end  to  the  other 
of  which  he  walks,  with  a  strangely  mechani- 
cal agitation.  He  fails  not  to  start  with  some 
phrase  to  which,  at  the  end  of  the  sentence, 
he  returns,  like  a  pendulum ;  though,  by  liis 
impassioned  gestures,  you  would  think  him 
very  likely  to  forget  it  :  but  this  is  a  syste- 
matic fury,  "  a  fit  of  regular  and  voluntary 
distraction,"  often  seen  in  Italy,  and  indicating 


CORINNE  ;   OR,  ITALY. 


75 


none  but  superficial  or  artificial  feelings.  A 
crucifix  is  hung  in  the  pulpit ;  the  preacher 
takes  it  down,  kisses,  presses  it  in  his  arms, 
and  then  hangs  it  up  again,  with  perfect  cool- 
ness, as  soon  as  the  pathetic  passage  is  got 
thnugh.  Another  method  for  producing  effect 
is  pulling  off  and  pitting  on  his  cap,  with  in- 
conceivable rapidity.  One  of  these  men  at- 
tacked Voltaire  and  Rousseau  on  the  scepticism 
of  the  age.  He  threw  his  cap  into  the  middle 
of  the  pulpit,  as  the  representative  of  Jean 
Jacques,  and  then  cried,  "  Now,  philosopher 
of  Geneva,  what  have  you  to  say  against  my 
arguments  ?"  He  was  silent  for  some  seconds, 
as  if  expecting  a  reply ;  but,  as  the  cap  said 
nothing,  he  replaced  it  on  his  head,  and  ter- 
minated the  discourse  by  adding, — "  Well, 
since  I've  convinced  you,  let  us  say  no  more 
about  it."  These  uncouth  scenes  are  frequent 
in  Rome,  where  real  pulpit  oratory  is  ex- 
tremely rare.  Religion  is  there  respected  as 
an  all-powerful  law  ;  its  ceremonies  captivate 
the  senses ;  but  its  preachers  deal  less  in 
morals  than  in  dogmas,  that  never  reach  the 
heart.  Eloquence,  in  this,  as  in  many  other 
branches  of  literature,  is  there  devoted  to 
common-places,  that  can  neither  describe  nor 
explain.  A  new  thought  creates  a  disturb- 
ance in  minds  at  once  so  ardent  and  so  lan- 
guid, that  they  need  uniformity  to  calm  them  ; 
and  love  it  for  the  repose  it  brings.  There  is 
an  etiquette  in  these  sermons,  by  which  words 
take  precedence  of  ideas ;  and  this  order  would 
be  deranged,  if  the  preacher  spoke  from  his 
own  heart,  or  searched  his  soul  for  what  he 
ought  to  say.  Christian  philosophy,  which 
finds  analogies  between  religion  and  humanity, 
is  as  little  understood  in  Italy,  as  philosophy 
of  any  other  sort.  To  speculate  on  religion 
is  deemed  almost  as  scandalous  as 
against  it ;  so  wedded  are  all  men  to  mere 
forms  and  old  usages,  The  worship  of  the 
Virgin  is  particularly  dear  to  southern  people  ; 
it  seems  allied  to  all  that  is  most  chaste  and 
tender  in  their  love  of  woman  ;  but  every 
preacher  treats  this  subject  with  the  same 
exaggerated  rhetoric,  and  one  can  hardly  con- 
ceive how  it  is  that  their  gestures  and  their 
language  do  not  constantly  turn  the  most  seri- 
ous subject  into  ridicule.  There  is  scarcely 
to  be  heard,  from  one  Italian  pulpit,  a  single 
specimen  of  correct  accent,  or  natural  de- 
livery. 

Oswald  fled  from  this  most  fatiguing  of  in- 
flictions— that  of  affected  vehemence — and 
sought  the  Coliseum,  where  a  Capuchin  was 
to  preach  in  the  open  air,  at  the  foot  of  an 
altar,  in  the  centre  of  the  enclosure  which 
marks  the  road  to  the  cross.  What  a  theme 
was  this  arena,  where  martyrs  succeeded 
gladiators :  but  there  was  no  hope  of  hearing 


it  dilated  on  by  the  poor  capuchin,  who  knew 
nothing  of  the  history  of  man,  save  in  his  own 
life.  Without,  however,  coming  there  to  hear 
his  bad  sermon,  Oswald  felt  interested  by  the 
objects  around  him.  The  congregation  was 
principally  composed  of  the  Camaldoline  fra- 
ternity, at  that  time  attired  in  grey  gowns 
that  covered  both  head  and  body,  leaving  but 
two  little  openings  for  the  eyes,  and  having  a 
most  ghostly  air.  Their  unseen  faces  were 
prostrated  to  the  earth ;  they  beat  their 
breasts  ;  and  when  their  preacher  threw  him- 
self on  his  knees,  crying — '•  Mercy  and  pity  !" 
they  followed  his  example.  As  this  appeal 
from  wretchedness  to  compassion,  from  earth 
to  Heaven,  echoed  through  the  classic  porti- 
coes, it  was  impossible  not  to  experience  a 
deeply  pious  feeling  in  the  soul's  inmost  sanc- 
tuary. Oswald  shuddered  ;  he  remained 
standing,  that  he  might  not  pretend  to  a  faith 
which  was  not  his  own ;  yet  it  cost  him  an 
effort  to  forbear  from  this  fellowship  with 
mortals,  whoever  they  were,  thus'  humbling 
themselves  before  their  God  ; — for,  does  not 
an  invocation  to  heavenly  sympathy  equally 
become  us  all?  ' 

The  people  were  struck  by  his  noble  and 
foreign  aspect,  but  not  displeased  with  his 
omitting  to  join  them  ;  for  no  men  on  earth 
can  be  more  tolerant  than  the  Romans.  They 
are  accustomed  to  persons  who  come  amongst 
them  but  as  sight-seers ;  and,  either  from 
pride  or  indolence,  never  seek  to  make  stran- 
gers participate  in  their  opinions.  It  is  a  still 
more  extraordinary  fact,  that  at  this  period 
especially,  there  are  many  who  take  on  them- 
selves the  strictest  punishments  ;  yet,  while 
the  scourge  is  in  their  hands,  the  church-door 
is  still  open,  and  every  stranger  welcome  to 
enter  as  usual.  They  do  nothing  for  the  sake 
of  being  looked  at,  nor  are  they  frightened 
from  anything  because  they  happen  to  be  seen  ; 
they  proceed  towards  their  own  aims,  or  plea- 
sures, without  knowing  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  vanity,  whose  only  aim  and  pleasure 
consists  in  the  applause  of  others. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MUCH  has  been  said  of  Passion-week  in 
Rome.  A  number  of  foreigners  arrive  during 
Lent,  to  enjoy  this  spectacle  ;  and  as  the  mu- 
sic at  the  Sixiine  Chapel,  and  the  illumination 
of  St.  Peter's  are  unique  of  their  kinds,  they 
naturally  attract  much  curiosity,  which  is  not 


scheming-  enter  as  usual. 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


always  satisfied.     The  dinner  served  by  the 
Pope  to  the  twelve   representatives  of  the 

:  Apostles,  whose  feet  he  bathes,  must  recall 
solemn  ideas  ;  yet  a  thousand  inevitable  cir- 
cumstances often  destroy  their  dignity.  All 
the  contributors  to  these  customs  are  not 
equally  absorbed  by  devotion  ;  ceremonies  so 
oft  repeated  become  mechanical  to  most  of 
their  agents  ;  the  young  priests  hurry  over 
the  service  with  a -dextrous  activity  anything 
but  imposing.  All  the  mysteries  that  should 
veil  religion  are  dissipated,  by  that  attention 
we  cannot  help  giving  to  the  manner  in  which 
each  performs  his  function.  The  avidity  of 
the  one  party  for  the  meat  set  before  them, 
the  indifference  of  the  other  to  their  prayer? 
and  genuflections,  deprive  the  whole  of  its  due 
sublimity. 

The  ancient  costumes  still  worn  by  the  ec- 
clesiastics ill  accord  with  their  modern  heads. 
The  bearded  Patriarch  of  the  Greek  Church 
is  the  most  venerable  figure  left  for  such  offi- 
ces. The  old  fashion,  too,  of  men  curtesying 
like  women  is  dangerous  to  the  gravity  of  the 
spectator.  The  past  and  the  present,  indeed, 
rather  jostle  than  harmonize  ;  little  care  is 
taken  to  strike  the  imagination,  and  none  to 

I  prevent  its  being  distracted.  A  worship  so 
brilliantly  majestic  in  its  externals  is  certainly 
well  fitted  to  elevate  the  soul ;  but  more  cau- 
tion should  be  observed,  lest  its  ceremonies 
degenerate  into  plays,  in  which  the  actors  get 
by  rote  what  they  "have  to  do,  and  at  what 
time  ;  when. to  pray,  when  to  have  done  pray- 
ing ;  when  to  kneel,  and  when  to  rise.  Court 
rules  introduced  into  church  restrain  that 
soaring  elasticity  which  alone  can  give  man 
hope  of  drawing  near  his  Maker. 

The  generality  of  foreigners  observe  this  ; 
yet  few  Romans  but  yearly  find  fresh  plea- 
sure in  these  sacred  fetes.  It  is  a  peculiarity 
in  Italian  character,  that  their  versatility  of 
Uste  leads  not  to  inconstancy  ;  and  that  their 
vivacity  removes  all  necessity  for  variety. 
The  Italians,  penitent  and  persevering  even 
in  their  amusements,  let  imagination  embellish 
what  they  possess,  instead  of  bidding  them 
crave  what  they  have  not :  they  deem  every- 
thing more  grand,  more  beautiful  than  it  really 
is  ;  and  as  elsewhere  vanity  teaches  men  to 
seem  fastidious,  in  Italy,  warmth  of  tempera- 
ment makes  it  a  pleasure  to  admire. 

After  all  the  Romans  had  said  to  Nelvil  of 
their  Passion-week,  he  had  expected  much 
more  than  he  had  found.  He  sighed  for  the 
august  simplicity  of  the  English  Church,  and 
returned  home  discontented  with  himself,  for 
not  having  been  affected  by  that  which  he 
ought  to  have  felt.  In  such  coses  we  fancy 
that  the  soul  is  withered,  and  fear  that  we 
have  lost  that  enthusiasm,  without  which  rea- 


son itself  would  but  serve  to  disgust  us  with 
life. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

GOOD  FRIDAY  restored  all  the  religious  emo- 
tions of  Lord  Nelvil ;  he  was  about  to  regain 
Corinne :  the  sweet  hopes  of  love  blended 
with  that  piety,  from  which  nothing  save  the 
factitious  career  of  the  world  can  entirely 
wean  us.  He  sought  the  Sixtine  Chapel,  to 
hear  the  far-famed  Miserere.  It  was  yet  light 
enough  for  him  to  see  the  pictures  of  Michael 
Angelo ; — the  Day  of  Judgment,  treated  by  a 
genius  worthy  so  terrible  a  subject.  Dante 
had  infected  this  painter  with  the  bad  taste  of 
representing  mythological  beings  in  the  pre- 
sence of  Christ ;  but  it  is  chiefly  as  demons 
that  he  has  characterized  these  Pagan  crea- 
tions. Beneath  the  arches  of  the  roof  are 
seen  the  prophets  and  heathen  priestesses, 
called  as  witnesses  by  the  Christians  (tests 
David  cum  Sybilla)  ;  a  host  of  angels  around 
them.  The  roof  is  painted  as  if  to  bring 
heaven  nearer  to  us  ;  but  that  heav-en  is 
gloomy  and  repulsive.  Day  scarcely  pene- 
trates the  windows,  which  throw  on  the  pic- 
tures more  shadows  than  beams.  This  dim- 
ness enlarges  the  already  commanding  figures 
of  Michael  Angelo.  The  funejeal  perfume 
of  incense  fills  the  aisles,  and  every  sensation 
prepares  us  for  that  deeper  one  which  awaits 
the  touch  of  music.  While  Oswald  was  lost 
In  these  reflections,  he  beheld  Corinne,  whom 
he  had  not  expected  yet  to  see.  enter  ihat  part 
of  the  chapel  devoted  to  females,  and  sepa- 
rated by  a  grating  from  the  rest.  She  was 
in  black ;  pale  with  abstinence,  and  so  tremu- 
lous, as  she  perceived  him,  that  she  was 
obliged  to  support, herself  by  the  balustrade. 
At  this  moment  the  Miserere  commenced.  •, 
Voices  well  practised  in  this  pure  and  antique 
chant  rose  from  an  unseen  gallery  ;  every  in- 
stant rendered  the  chapel  darker.  The  music 
seemed  to  float  in  the  air  ;  no  longer  in  the 
voluptuously  impassioned  strains  which  the 
lovers  had  heard  together  a  week  since,  but 
such  as  seemed  bidding  them  renounce  all 
earthly  things.  Corinne  knelt  before  the  ^ 
grate.  Oswald  himself  was  forgotten.  At  j 
such  a  moment  she  would  have  loved  to  die. 
If  the  separation  of  soul  and  body  were 
but  pangless  ;  if  an  angel  would  bear  away 
thought  and  feeling  on  his  wings, — divine 
sparks  that  shall  return  to  their  source, — death  i; 

, . !  I 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


77 


would  be  then  the  heart's  spontaneous  act,  an 
ardent  prayer  most  mercifully  granted.  The 
verses  of  this  psalm  are  sung  alternately,  and 
in  very  contrasted  styles.  The  heavenly  har- 
mony of  one  is  answered  by  murmured  reci- 
tative, heavy  and  even  harsh,  like  the  reply  of 
^•orldlings  to  the  appeal  of  sensibility,  or  the 
realities  of  life  defeating  the  vows  of  generous 
souls.  When  the  soft  choir  reply,  hope  springs 
again,  again  to  be  frozen  by  that  dreary  sound 
which  inspires  not  terror,  but  utter  discourage- 
ment ;  yet  the  last  burst,  most  reassuring  of 
all,  leaves  just  the  pure  and  exquisite  sensa- 
tion in  the  soul  which  we  would  pray  to  be 
accorded  when  we  die.  The  lights  are  ex- 
tinguished ;  night  advances ;  the  pictures 
gleam  like  prophetic  phantoms  through  the 
dusk ;  the  deepest  silence  reigns ;  speech 
would  be  insupportable  in  this  state  of  self- 
communion  ;  every  one  steals  slowly  away, 
reluctant  to  resume  th§  vulgar  interests  of  the 
world. 

Corinne  followed  the  procession  to  St. 
Peter's,  as  yet  illumined  by  a  cross  of  fire  ; 
this  type  of  grief  shining  alone  through  the 
immense  obscure,  is  a  fine  image  of  Christi- 
anity amid  the  shades  of  life  !  A  wan  light 
falls  over  the  statues  on  the  tombs.  The 
living,  who  throng  these  arches,  appear  but 
pigmies,  compared  with  the  effigies  of  the 
dead.  Around  the  cross  is  a  space  cleared, 
where  the  Pope,  arrayed  in  white,  with  all 
the  cardinals  behind  him,  prostrate  themselves 
to  the  earth,  and  remain  nearly  half  an  hour 
profoundly  mute.  It  is  impossible  to  be  un- 
moved at  this  spectacle.  None  hear  what 
they  request ;  none  hear  their  secret  groans  ; 
but  they  are  aged,  going  before  us  towards 
the  tomb,  whither  we  must  follow.  Grant  us, 
O  God  !  the  grace  so  to  ennoble  our  age,  that 
the  last  days  of  life  may  be  the  first  of  im- 
mortality. 

Corinne,  too,  the  young  and  lovely  Corinne, 
knelt  near  the  priests  ;  the  mild  light  weak- 
ened not  the  lustre  of  her  eyes.  Oswald 
looked  on  her  as  an  entrancing  picture,  as 
an  adored  woman.  Her  orison  concluded, 
she  rose  ;  her  lover  dared  not  approach,  re- 
vering the  meditations  in  which  he  believed 
her  still  plunged  ;  but  she  came  to  him  with 
all  the  rapture  of  reunion  :  happiness  was  so 
shed  over  her  every  action,  that  she  received 
the  greetings  of  her  friends  with  unwonted 
gaiety.  St.  Peter's,  indeed,  had  suddenly 
become  a  public  promenade,  where  every  one 
made  appointments  of  business  or  of  pleasure. 
Oswald  was  astonished  at  this  power  of  run- 
ning from  one  extreme  to  another  ;  and,  much 
as  he  rejoiced  in  the  vivacity  of  Corinne,  he 
felt  surprised  at  her  thus  instantly  banishing 
all  traces  of  her  late  emotions.  He  could  not 


conceive  how  this  glorious  edifice,  on  s<  j 
solemn  a  day,  could  be  converted  into  «le  , 
Cafe  of  Rome,  where  people  met  for  amuse- 
ment ;  and  seeing  Corinne  encircled  by  ad- 
mirers, to  whom  she  chatted  cheerfully,  as  if 
no  longer  conscious  where  she  stood,  he  felt 
some  mistrust  as  to  the  levity  of  which  she 
could  be  capable.  She  read  his  thoughts,  and 
hastily  breaking  from  her  party,  took  his  arm 
to  walk  the  church  with  him,  saying,  "  I  have 
never  spoken  to  you  of  my  religious  senti- 
ments ;  let  me  do  so  now ;  perhaps  I  may 
thus  disperse  the  clouds  I  see  rising  in  your 
mind." 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  THE  difference  of  our  creeds,  my  dear 
Oswald,"  continued  Corinne,  "  is  the  cause  of 
the  unspoken  displeasure  you  cannot  prevent 
me  from  detecting.  Your  faith  is  serious  and 
severe,  ours  lively  and  tender.  It  is  generally 
believed  that  my  church  is  the  most  rigorous  ; 
it  may  be  so,  in  a  country  where  struggles 
exist  between  the  two ;  but  here  we  have  no 
doctrinal  dissensions.  England  has  experi- 
enced many.  The  result  is,  that  Catholicism 
here  has  taken  an  indulgent  character,  such 
as  it  cannot  have  where  Reformation  is  armed 
against  it.  Our  religion,  like  that  of  the  an- 
cients, animates  the  arts,  inspires  the  poets, 
and  makes  part  of  all  the  joys  of  life-;  while 
yours,  established  in  a  country  where  reason 
predominates  over  fancy,  is  stamped  with  a 
moral  sternness  that  will  never  be  effaced. 
Ours  calls  on  us  in  the  name  of  love  ;  yours 
in  that  of  duty.  Your  principles  are  liberal ; 
our  dogmas  bigoted  :  yet  our  orthodox  despot- 
ism yields  to  the  circumstances  of  the  indi- 
vidual, but  your  religious  liberty  exacts  re- 
spect for  its  own  laws,  without  any  exception. 
It  is  true  that  our  monastics  undergo  sad 
hardships,  but  they"  choose  them  freely  ;  their 
state  is  a  mysterious  engagement  betvyeen 
God  and  man.  Among  the  secular  Catholics 
here,  love,  hope  and  faith,  are  the  chief  vir- 
tues;  all  announcing,  all  bestowing  peace. 
Far  from  our  priests  forbidding  us  to  rejoice, 
they  tell  us  that  we  thus  evince  our  gratitude 
for  the  gifts  of  Heaven.  They  enjoin  us  to 
practise  charity  and  repentance,  as  proofs  of 
our  respect  for  our  faith,  and  our  desire  to 
please  its  founder ;  but  they  refuse  us  not  the 
absolution  we  zealously  implore ;  and  the 
errors  of  the  heart  meet  here  a  mercy  else- 


78 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


where  denied  T)id  not  our  Saviour  tell  the 
Magdalene  that  much  should  be  pardoned  to 
the  greatness  of  her  love  ?  As  fair  a  sky  as 
ours  echoed  these  words  :  shall  we  'then  de- 
spair of  our  Creator's  pity  1" 

"  Corinne,"  returned  Nelvil,  "how  can  I 
combat  arguments  so  sweet,  so  needful  to  me  ? 
and  yet  I  must.  It  is  not  for  a  day  I  love 
Corinne  ;  to  her  1  look  for  a  long  futurity  of 
content  and  virtue.  The  purest  religion  is 
that  which  sacrifices  passion  to  duty,  as  a  con- 
tinual homage  to  the  Supreme  Being.  A 
moral  life  is  the  best  offering.  We  degrade 
the  Creator  by  attributing  to  him  a  wish  that 
tends  not  towards  our  intellectual  perfection. 
Paternity,  that  god-like  symbol  of  faultless 
sway,  seeks  but  to  render  its  children  better 
and  happier.  How,  then,  suppose  that  God 
demands  of  man  anything  that  has  not  the 
welfare  of  man  for  its  object  ]  what  confused 
notions  spring  from  the  habit  of  attaching 
more  importance  to  religious  ceremony  than 
to  active  worth  1  You  know  that  it  is  just 
after  Passion-week  the  greatest  number  of 
murders  are  committed  in  Rome.  The  long 
fast  has,  so  to  speak,  put  its  votaries  in , funds, 
and  they  spend  the  treasures  of  their  peni- 
tence in  assassinations.  The  most  blood- 
stained criminal  here  scruples  to  eat  meat  on 
Fridays  ;  convinced  that  the  greatest  of  crimes 
were  that  of  disobeying  the  ordinances  of  the 
Church.  All  conscience  is  lavished  on  -that 
point ;  as  if  the  Divinity  were  like  one  of  the 
world's  rulers,  who  preferred  flattering  sub- 
mission to  faithful  service.  Is  this  courtier- 
like  behavior  to  be  substituted  for  the  respect 
we  owe  the  Eternal,  as  the  source  and  the 
recompense  of  a  forbearing  and  spotless  life  ] 
The  external  demonstration  of  Italian  Catho- 
licism excuses  the  soul  from  all  interior  piety. 
The  spectacle  over,  the  feeling  ends — the 
duty  is  done  ;  no  one  remains,  as  with  us, 
long  occupied  by  thoughts  born  of  strict  and 
sincere  self-examination." 

'  You  are  severe,  my  dear  Oswald,"  said 
Corinne  ;  "  this  is  not  the  first  time  I  have 
remarked  it.  If  religion  consists  but  in  mo- 
rality, how  is  it  superior  to  philosophy  and 
reason  T  And  what  piety  could  we  truly  feel, 
f  our  principal  end  was  that  of  stifling  all  the 
feelings  of  the  heart  1  The  Stoics  knew 
almost  as  much  as  ourselves  of  austere  self- 
denials  ;  but  that  which  is  due  to  Christianity 
alone  is  the  enthusiasm  which  weds  it  with 
all  the  affections  of  the  soul — the  power  of 
loving  and  sympathising.  It  is  the  most  in- 
dulgent worship,  which  best  favors  the  flight 
of  our  spirits  towards  heaven.  What  means 
the  parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  if  not  that 
true  love  of  God  is  preferred  even  above  the 
most  exact  fulfilment  of  duty  1  He  quitted 


the  paternal  roof:  his  brother  remained  be- 
neath it ;  'he  had  plunged  into  all  the  pleasures 
of  the  world  ;  his  brother  had  never  for  an 
instant  broken  the  regularity  of  domestic  life  : 
but  the  wandeier  returned,  all  tears,  and  his 
beloved  father  received  him  with  rejoicing  ! 
Ah  !  doubtless,  among  the  mysteries  of  nature, 
love  is  all  that  is  left  us  of  our  heavenly  heri- 
tage !  Our  very  virtues  are  often  too  com- 
plicated with  circumstances  for  us  always  to 
comprehend  what  is  right,  or  what  is  the  se- 
cret impulse  that  directs  us.  I  ask  my  God 
to  teach  me  to  adore  him.  I  feel  the  effect  of 
my  petition  by  the  tears  I  shed.  But,  to  sus- 
tain this  disposition,  religious  exercises  are 
more  necessary  than  you  may  think  ; — a  con- 
stant intercourse  with  the  Divinity ;  daily 
habits  that  have  no  connection  with  the  inte- 
rests of  life,  but  belong  solely  to  the  invisible 
world.  External  objects  are  of  great  assist- 
ance to  piety.  The  soul  would  fall  back  upon 
herself,  if  music  and  the  arts  reanimated  not 
that  poetic  genius,  which  is  also  the  genius  of 
religion.  The  most  vulgar  man,  while  he 
prays,  suffers,  or  trusts  in  Heaven,  would  ex- 
press himself  like  Milton,  Homer,  or  Tasso, 
if  education  had  clothed  his  thoughts  in  words. 
There  are  but  two  distinct  classes  of  men 
born — those  who  feel  enthusiasm,  and  those 
who  deride  it ;  all  the  rest  is  the  work  of  so- 
ciety. One  class  have  no  words  for  their 
sentiments  ;  the  other  know  what  they  ought 
to  say  to  hide  the  void  of  their  hearts  :  but 
the  stream  flowed  from  the  rock  at  the  com- 
mand of  Heaven  ;  even  so  gush  forth  true 
talent,  true  religion,  true  love. 

The  pomp  of  our  worship  ;  those  pictures 
of  kneeling  saints,  whose  looks  express  con- 
tinual prayer  ;  those  statues  placed  on  tombs, 
as  if  to  awaken  one  day  with  the  dead  ;  our 
churches,  with  their  lofty  aisles  ; — all  seem 
ntimately  connected  with  devout  ideas.  I 
love  this  splendid  homage,  made  by  man  to 
that  which  promises  him  neither  fortune  nor 
power  ;  which  neither  rewards  nor  punishes, 
save  by  the  feelings  it  inspires  :  I  grow  proud 
of  my  kind,  as  I  recognize  something  so  dis- 
interested. The  magnificence  of  religion 
cannot  be  too  much  increased.  I  love  this 
prodigality  of  terrestrial  gifts  to  another 
world  ;  offerings  from  time  to  eternity  !  Suf- 
ficient for  the  morrow  are  the  cares  required 
by  human  economy.  Oh  !  how  I  love  whut 

ould  be  useless  waste,  were  life  nothing 
better  than  a  career  of  toil  for  despicable 
gain  !  If  this  earth  be  but  our  road  to  hea- 
ven, what  can  we  do  better  than  so  elevate 
our  souis,  that  they  feel  the  Infinite,  the  *n- 

isible,  the  Eternal,  in  the  midst  of  the  limiw 
that  surronnd  them  ]  Jesus  permitted  a  weak 
and,  perhaps,  repentant  woman,  to  steep  fau 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


791 


head  in  precious  balms,  saying  to  those  who 
bade  her  turn  them  to  more  profitable  use, 
'  \V  hy  trouble  ye  the  woman  T  the  poor  ye 
have  al \vays  with  you,  but  me  ye  have  not 
always.'  Ala?  !  whatever  is  good  or  sublime 
on  this  earth,  is  ours  but  for  a  while  ;  we 
have  it  not  always.  Age,  infirmities,  and 
death  soon  sully  the  heavenly  dewdrop  that 
only  rests  on  flowers.  Dear  Oswald,'  let  us, 
then,  blend  love,  religion,  genius,  sunshine, 
odors,  music,  and  poetry.  There  is  no  Athe- 
ism but  cold,  selfish  baseness.  Christ  has 
said,  '  When  two  or  three  are  gathered  toge- 
ther in  my  name,  I  will  be  amongst  them ;' 
and  what,  Oh  God  !  is  assembling  in  thy  name, 
if  we  do  not  so  while  enjoying  the  charms  of 
nature,  therein  praising  and  thanking  thee  for 
our  life ;  above  all,  when  some  other  heart, 
created  by  thy  hands,  responds  entirely  to  our 
own  ?" 

So  celestial  an  inspiration  animated  the 
countenance  of  Corinne,  that  Oswald  could 
scarce  refrain  from  falling  at  her  feet  in  that 
august  temple.  He  was  long  silent,  delight- 
edly musing  over  her  words,  and  reading  their 
meaning  in  her  looks  :  he  could  not,  however, 
abandon  a  cause  so  dear  to  him  as  that  he  had 
undertaken  ;  therefore  he  resumed.  "  Co- 
rinne, hear  a  few  words  more  from  your 
friend  :  his  heart  is  not  seared  ;  no,  no,  be- 
"i3ve  me,  if  I  require  austerity  of  principle 
an  i  action,  it  is  because  it  gives  our  feelings 
depth  and  duration  ;  if  I  look  for  reason  in 
religion, — that  is,  if  I  reject  contradictory 
dogmas,  and  human  means  for  affecting  the 
soul — it  is-because  I  see  the  Divinity  in  rea- 
son as  well  as  in  enthusiasm  ;  if  1  cannot 
allow  man  to  be  deprived  of  any  of  his  facul- 
ties, it  is  because  they  are  all  scarce  sufficient 
for  his  comprehension  of  the  truths,  revealed 
to  him  as  much  by  mental  reflection  as  by 
heartfelt  instinct — the  existence  of  a  God, 
and  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  To  these 
solemn  thoughts,  so  entwined  with  virtue, 
what  can  be  added,  that,  in  fact,  belongs  to 
them  T  The  poetic  zeal  to  which  you  lend 
so  many  attractions,  is  not,  I  dare  assert,  the 
most  salutary  kind  of  devotion  !  Gorinne, 
how  can  it  prepare  us  for  the  innumerable 
sacrifices  that  duty  exacts  1  There  was  no 
revelation,  save  in  the  aspirations  of  the  soul, 
while  its  future  destiny  is  seen  but  through 
clouds.  But  we,  to  whom  Christianity  ren- 
ders it  clear  and  positive,  may  deem  suchsen- 
sations  our  reward,  but  cannot  make  them  our 
sole  guide.  You  describe  the  existence  of 
the  blest,  not  that  of  mortals  ;  a  religious  life* 
is  a  combat,  not  a  hymn.  If  we  were  not 
sent  here  to  repress  ounown  and  others'  evil 
inclinations,  there  would,  as  you  say,  be  no 
distinctions  save  between  apathetic  and  ardent 


minds.  But  man  is  more  harsh  and  rugged 
than  you  think  him  ;  rational  piety  and  impe- 
rious duty  alone  can  check  his  proud  excesses. 
Whatever  you  may  think  of  exterior  pomp, 
and  numerous  ceremonies,  dearest !  the  con- 
templation of  the  universe  and  its  Author, 
will  ever  be  the  highest  worship,  one  which 
fills  the  imagination  without  containing  any- 
thing either  idle  or  absurd.  The  dogmas  that 
offend  my  reason,  also  chill  my  enthusiasm. 
Doubtless,  the  world  is  in  itself  an  incompre- 
hensible mystery,  and  he  were  most  unwise 
who  refused  to  believe  whatever  he  could  not 
explain  ;  but  contradictions  are  always  th§ 
work  of  man.  The  secrets  of  God  are  be- 
yond our  mental  powers,  but  not  opposed  to 
them.  A  German  philosopher  has  said,  '  / 
know  but  two  beautiful  things  in  the  universe 
— the  starry  sky  above  our  heads,  and  the 
sense  of  duty  within  our  hearts.'  In  sooth, 
all  the  wonders  of  creation  are  included  in 
these.  Far  from  a  simple  religion  withering 
the  heart,  I  used  to  think,  ere  I  knew  you, 
Corinne,  that  such  alone  could  concentrate  and 
perpetuate  its  affections.  I  have  witnessed 
the  most  austere  purity  of  conduct  from  a 
man  of  inexhaustible  tenderness.  I  have 
seen  it  preserve,  in  age,  a  virgin  innocence 
which  the  storms  of  passion  must  else  have 
blighted.  Repentance  is  assuredly  commend- 
able, and  I, -more  than  most  men,  had  need 
rely  on  its  efficacy  ;  but  repeated  penitence 
wearies  the  soul ;  it  is  a  sentiment  that  can 
but  once  regenerate  us.  Redemption  accom- 
plished, cannot  be  renewed  :  accustomed  to 
the  attempt,  we  lose  the  strength  of  love  ;  for 
it  requires  strength  of  mind  to  love  God  con- 
stantly. I  object  to  the  splendid  forms  which 
here  act  so  powerfully  on  the  fancy,  because 
I  would  have  imagination  modest  and  retiring, 
like  the  heart :  emotions  extorted  from  it,  are 
always  less  forcible  than  those  that  spring 
spontaneously.  In  the  Cevennes,  I  heard  a 
Protestant  minister  preach  one  eve  among  the 
mountains  :  he  addressed  the  tombs  of  the 
Frenchmen,  banished  by  their  brothers,  and 
promised  their  friends  that  they  should  meet 
them  in  a  better  world  :  a  virtuous  life,  he 
said,  would  secure  that  blessing,  adding,  '  Do 
good  to  man,  that  God  may  heal  the  wounds 
within  your  breasts  !'  He  wondered  at  the 
inflexibility  with  which  the  creature  of  a  day 
dared  treat  his  fellow  worm  ;  and  dwelt  on 
the  terrible  thought  of  death,  which  all  con- 
ceive, but  none  can  fully  comprehend.  In 
short,  he  said  naught  that  was  not  touching, 
true,  and  perfectly  in  harmony  with  nature. 
The  distant  cataract,  the  sparkling  starlight, 
seemed  expressing  the  same  thoughts  in  other 
ways.  There  was  the  magnificence  of  na- 
ture, the  only  one  whose  spectacles  offend  not 


80 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


the  unfortunate  ;  and  this  imposing  simplicity 
affected  the  soul  as  it  was  never  affected  by 
the  most  brilliant  of  ceremonies." 

On  Easter  Sunday,  Oswald  and  Corinne 
went  to  the  Place  of  St.  Peter's,  to  see  the 
Pope,  from  the  highest  balconv  of  the  church, 
call  down  Heaven's  blessing  on  the  earth  :  as 
he  pronounced  '  Urbi  et  Orbi ' — on  the  city  and 
the  world, — the  people  knelt,  and  the  lovers 
felt  all  -reeds  alike.  Religion  links  men  with 
each  other,  unless  self-love  and  fanaticism 
render  it  a  cause  of  jealousy  and  hate.  To 
pray  together,  in  whatever  tongue  or  ritual, 
is,  the  most  tender  brotherhood  of  hope  and 
sympathy  that  men  can  contract  in  this  life. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

EASTER  was  over,  yet  Corinne  spoke  not  of 
accomplishing  her  promise,  by  confiding  her 
history  to  Nelvil.  Hurt  by  this  silence,  he 
on^e  day  told  her  that  he  intended  paying  a 
visit  to  their  vaunted  Naples.  She  understood 
his  feelings,  and  proposed  to  make  the  journey 
with  him;  hoping  to  escape  the -avowal  he 
expected  from  her,  by  giving  him  a  proof  of 
love  which  ought  to  be  so  satisfactory :  he- 
sides,  she  thought  that  he  would  not  take  her 
with  him,  unless  he  designed  to  become  hers 
for  life.  Her  anxious  looks  supplicated  a 
j|  favorable  reply.  He  could  not  resist,  though 
surprised  at  the  simplicity  with  which  she 
made  this  offer;  yet  he  hesitated  for  some 
time,  till,  seeing  her  bosorn  throb,  and  her 
eyes  fill,  he  consented,  without  considering 
the  importance  of  such  a  resolution.  Corinne 
was  overwhelmed  with  joy  :  at  that  moment 
she  implicitly  relied  on  his  fidelity. 

The  day  was  fixed,  and  the  sweet  perspec- 
tive  of   travelling   together   banished  .  every 
other  idea.     Not  aa  arrangement  they  made 
for  this  purpose  but  was  a  source  of  pleasure. 
Happy  state  of  mind !  in  which  every  detail 
of  life  derives  a  charm  from  some  fond  hope. 
Too  soon  comes  the  time  when  each  hour 
fatigues ;   when    each   morning   costs   us   an 
effort,  to  support  our  waking,  and  drag  on  the 
j  day  to  its  close.     As  Nelvil  left  Corinne,  in 
|!  order   to   prepare    everything   for   their   de- 
ji  parture,  the   Count  d'E'rfeuil  called  on  her, 
ii  and  learnt  her  plan.     "You  cannot  think  of 
j !  it !"  he  said  :  "  make  a  tour  with  a  man  who 
|  has  not  even  promised  to  be  your  husband! 
I  what,   will   become   of  you   if  he   turns  de- 
j  serterV     "I  should  become,"   replied   she 


"  but  what  I  must  be,  in  any  situation,  if  he 
ceased  to  love  me, — the  most  unhappy  person 
in  the  world."  "  Yes  ;  but  if  you  should  do 
nothing  to  compromise  your  name,  you  would 
still  remain  yourself."  "Myself!"  she  re- 
peated, "  when  the  best  feelings  of  my  soul 
were  blighted,  and  my  heart  broken  V'  "  The 
public  would  not  guess  that ;  and  with  a  little 
caution  you  might  preserve  its  opinion." 
"  And  why  humor  that  opinion,  unless  it 
were  to  gain  one  merit  the  more  in  the  eyes 
of  him  I  love  V  "  We  may  cease  to  love," 
answered  the  Count,  "  but  we  do  not  cease  to 
live  in  need  of  society."  "  If  I  could  think," 
she  exclaimed,  "  that  the  day  would  come 
when  Oswald's  affections  were  no  longer  mine 
all  in  this  world,  1  should  have  ceased  to  love 
already.  What  is  love,  if  it  can  calculate  and 
provide  against  its  own  decay  ?  No  ;  like  de- 
votion, it  dissipates  all  other  interests,  and 
delights  in  an  entire  sacrifice  of  self.''  "And 
can  a  person  of  your  mind  turn  her  brain  with 
such  nonsense  ?"  asked  d'Erfeuil :  "  it  is  cer- 
tainly to  the  advantage  of  us  men,  that  women 
think  as  you  do ;  but  you  must  not  lose  your 
superiority  ;  it  ought  to  be  in  some  way  use- 
ful." "Useful!"  cried  Corinne;  "Oh!  I 
shall  owe  it  enough,  if  it  teaches  me  the 
better  to  appreciate  the  tender  generosity  of 
Nelvil." 

"  Lord  Nelvil  is  like  other  men,"  rejoined 
the  Count ;  "  he  will  return  to  nis  country, 
resume  his  career  there,  and  be  reasonable  at 
last ;  you  will  expose  your  reputation  most 
imprudently  by  going  to  Naples  with  him." 
"  I  know  not  his  intentions,"  she  answered  ; 
"  and,  perhaps,  it  would  have  been  better  to 
have  reflected  ere  I  loved  him  ;  but  now — 
what  matters  one  sacrifice  more  ?  Does  not 
my  life  depend  on  his  love "?  Indeed,  I  feel 
some  solace  in  leaving  myself  without  one 
resource  ;  there  never  is  any  for  wounded 
hearts,  but  the  world  may  sometimes  think 
that  such  remains  ;  and  I  love  to  know  that 
even  in  this  respect  my  misfortune  would  be 
complete,  if  Nelvil  abandoned  me."  "And 
does  he  know  how  far  you  commit  yourself 
for  his  sake  ?"  "  No  ;  I  have  taken  great 
pains,  as  he  is  but  imperfectly  acquainted 
with  the  customs  of  this  country,  to  exagge- 
rate the  liberty  it  permits.  Give  me  your 
word  that  you  will  say  nothing  to  him  on  this 
head.  I  wish  him  to  he  ever  free  ;  he  cannot 
constitute  my  felicity  by  giving  up  any  portion 
of  his  own.  His  love  is  the  flower  of  my 
life  ;  and  neither  his  delicacy  nor  his  good- 
ness could  reanimate  it,  if  once  faded.  I  con- 
jure you,  then,  dear  Count,  leave  me  to  my 
fate.  Nothing  that  you  knoto  of  the  .ieart\$ 
affections  can  suit  my  case  :  all  you  sav  is 
right,  and  very  applicable  to  ordinary  persons 


IT 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


81 


and  situations  ;  but  you  innocently  do  me  great 
wrong  in  judging  me  by  the  generality  of  per- 
sons, for  whom  there  are  so  many  maxims 
ready  made.  I  enjoy,  I  suffer,  in  my  own 
way  ;  and  it  is  myself  alone  that  those  should 
consider  who  seek  to  influence  my  welfare." 

The  self-love  of  d'Erfeuil  was  a  little  stung 
by  the  futility  of  his  advice :  and,  by  the  mark 
of  preference  shown  to  Nelv;l,  he  knew  that 
he  himself  was  not  dear  to  Corinne,  and  that 
Oswald  was  ;  yet  that  all  this  should  be  so 
publicly  evinced  was  somewhat  disagreeable 
to  him.  The  success  of  any  man,  with  any 
woman,  is  apt  to  displease  even  his  best  friends. 
"  I  see  I  can  do  nothing  here,"  he  added  ; 
"  but,  when  my  words  are  fulfilled,  you  will 
remember  me  ;  meantime  I  shall  leave  Rome  ; 
without  you  and  Nelvil  I  should  be  ennuied  to 
death.  I  shall  surely  see  you  both  again  in 
Italy  or  Scotland  ;  for  I  have  taken  a  fancy  to 
travel,  while  waiting  for  better  things.  For- 
give my  counsel,  charming  Corinne,  and  ever 
depend  on  my  devotion  to  you."  She  thanked 
and  parted  from  him  with  regret.  She  had 
known  him  at  the  same  time  with  Oswald  ; 
that  was  a  link  she  liked  not  to  see  broken  ; 
but  she  acted  as  she  had  told  d'Erfeuil  she 
should  do.  Some  anxiety  still  troubled  Os- 
wald's joy  ;  he  would  fain  have  obtained  her 
secret,  that  he  might  be  certain  they  were  not 
to  be  separated  by  any  invincible  obstacle  ; 
but  she  declared  she  would  explain  nothing 
till  they  were  at  Naples ;  and  threw  a  veil 
over  what  might  be  said  of  the  step  she  was 
taking.  Oswald  lent  himself  to  this  illusion  : 
love,  in  a  weak,  uncertain  character,  half  de- 
ceives, reason  remains  half  clear,  and  present 
emotions  decide  which  of  the  two  halves  shall 
become  the  whole.  The  mind  of  Nelvil  was 
singularly  expansive  and  penetrating  ;  yet  he 
could  only  judge  himself  correctly  in  the  past ; 
his  existing  situation  appeared  to  him  ever  in 
confusion.  Susceptible  alike  of  rashness  and 
remorse,  of  passion  and  timidity,  he  was  in- 
capable of  understanding  his  own  state,  until 
events  had  decided  the  combat. 

When  the  friends  of  Corinne  were  apprised 
of  her   plan,   they    were    greatly   distressed, 
especially  Prince  Castel  Forte,  who  resolved 
to  follow  her  as  soon  as  possible.     He  had  not 
the  vanity  to  oppose  her  accepted  lover,  but 
he  could  not  support  the  frightful  void  left  by 
the  absence  of  his  fair  friend  ;  he  had  no  ac- 
quaintance whom  he  was  not  wont  to  meet  at 
I  her  house  ;  he  visited  no  other.     The  society 
!  she  attracted  round  her  must  be  dispersed  by 

Iher  departure,  so  wrecked  that  it  would  soon 
be  impossible  to  restore  it.  He  was  little  ac- 
|  customed  to  live  ampng  his  family ;  though 
extremely  intelligent,  study  fatigued  him  ;  the 
day,  would  have  been  too  heavy  but  for  his 


morn  and  evening  visit  to  Corinne.  She  was 
going  ;  he  could  not  guess  why  ;  yet  secretly 
promised  himself  to  rejoin  her,  not  like  an 
exacting  lover,  but  as  one  ever  ready  to  con- 
sole her,  if  unhappy,  and  who  might  have 
been  but  too  sure  that  such  a  time  would  come. 

Corinne  felt  some  melancholy  in  loosening 
all  the  ties  of  habit ;  the  life  she  had  led  in 
Rome  was  agreeable  to  her  ;  si  e  was  the  cen- 
tre round  which  circled  all  its  celebrated  art- 
ists and  men  of  letters — perfect  freedom  had 
lent  charms  to  her  existence  :  what  was  she 
to  be  now  1  If  destined  to  be  Oswald's  wife, 
he  would  take  her  to  England :  how  should 
she  be  received  there  ?  how  restrain  herself 
to  a  career  so  different  from  that  of  her  last 
six  years  1  These  thoughts  did  but  pass  over 
her  mind  ;  love  for  Oswald  effaced  their  light 
track.  She  saw  him,  heard  him,  and  counted 
the  hours  but  by  his  presence  or  absence. 
Who  can  refuse  the  happiness  that  seeks 
them  ?  Corinne,  of  all  women,  was  the  least 
forethoughted ;  nor  hope  nor  fear  was  made 
for  her ;  her  faith  in  the  future  was  indistinct, 
and  in  this  respect  her  fancy  did  her  as  little 
good  as  harm. 

The  morning  of  her  departure  Castel  Forte 
came  to  her,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  "  Will 
you  return  no  more  to  Rome]"  he  asked. 
"  Good  God,  yes !"  she  cried  ;  "  we  shall  be 
back  in  a  month."  "  But,  if  you  wed  Lord 
Nelvil,  you  will  leave  Italy."  "  Leave  Italy  !" 
she  sighed.  "  Yes ;  the  country  where  we 
speak  your  language,  and  understand  you  so 
well ;  where  you  are  so  warmly  admired,  and 
for  friends,  Corinne, — where  will  you  be  be- 
loved as  you  are  here  1  where  find  the  arts, 
the  thoughts  that  please  you  !  Can  a  single 
attachment  constitute  your  life  1  Do  not  lan- 
guage, customs,  and  manners,  compose  that 
love  of  country  which  inflicts  such  terrible 
grief  on  the  exile  1"  "  What  say  you  T'  cried 
Corinne  :  "  have  I  not  experienced  it  *  Did 
not  that  very  grief  decide  my  fate  ?"  She 
looked  sadly  on  the  statues  that  decked  her 
room,  then  on  the  Tiber,  rolling  beneath  her 
windows :  and  the  skv  whose  smile  seemed 
inviting  her  to  stay  ;  but  at  that  moment  Os- 
wald crossed  the  bridge  of  St.  Angelo  on 
horseback.  "  Here  he  is  !"  cried  Corinne  : 
she  had  scarcely  said  the  words  ere  he  was 
beside  her.  She  ran  before  him,  and  both, 
impatient  to  set  forth,  took  their  places  i»  the 
carriage  ;  yet  Corinne  paid  a  kind  adieu  to 
Castel  Forte  ;  but  it  was  lost  among  the  shouts 
of  paetilions,  the  neighing  of  horses,  and  all 
the  bustle  of  departure — sometimes  sad — 
sometimes  intoxicating, — just  as  fear  or  hope 
may  be  inspired  by  the  new  chances  of  coming 
destiny. 


82 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


BOOK      XI. 


NAPLES,     \N0     THE     HERMITAGE     OF. ST.     SALVADOR 


CHAPTER  I. 

OSWALD  was  proud  of  bearing  off  his  con- 
quest ;  though  usually  disturbed  in  his  enjoy- 
ments by  reflections  and  regrets,  he  felt  less 
so  now:  not  that  he  was  decided,  but  that  he 
did  not  trouble  himself  to  be  so  ;  lie  yielded 
to  the  course  of  events,  hoping  to  be  borne 
rewards  the  haven  of  his  wishes.  They 
crossed  the  Campagna  d'Albano,  where  still  is 
shown  the  supposed  tomb  of  the  Horatii  and 
Curiatii,  (25).  They  passed  near  the  Lake  of 
Nemi,  and  the  sacred  woods  that  surround  it, 
where  it  is  said  Hippolitus  was  restored  to 
life  by  Diana,  who  permitted  no  horses  ever 
to  enter  it  more,  in  remembrance  of  her  young 
favorite's  misfortune.  Thus,  in  Italy,  almost 
at  every  step,  history  and  poetry  add  to  the 
graces  of  nature,  sweeten  the  memory  of  the 
past,  and  seem. to  preserve  it  in  eternal  youth. 
Oswald  and  Corinne  next  traversed  the  Pon- 
tine  marshes,  fertile  and  pestilent  at  once,  un- 
enlivened by  a  single  habitation.  Squalid- 
looking  men  put  to  the  horses,  advising  you  to 
keep  awake  while  ppsing  through  this  air,  as 
sleep  is  there  the  herald  of  death.  Buflhloes, 
of  the  most  stupid  ferocity,  draw  the  plough, 
which  imprudent  cultivators  sometimes  em- 
ploy upon  this  fatal  land  ;  and  the  most  bril- 
liant sunshine  lights  up  the  melancholy  scene. 
Unwholesome  swamps  in  the  north  are  indi- 
cated by  their  frightful  aspects  ;  but  in  the 
most  dangerous  countries  of  the  south  nature 
deceives  the  traveller  by  her  serenest  welcome. 
If  it  be  true  that  slumber  is  so  perilous  on  these 
fens,  the  drowsiness  which  they  produce  is  an- 
other of  the  perfidious  impressions  belonging  to 
the  scene.  Nelvil  watched  constantly  over 
Corinne.  When  she  languidly  closed  her 
eyes,  or  leaned  her  head  on  the  shoulder  of 
Theresina,  he  awakened  her  with  inexpressible 
terror  ;  and,  silent  as  he  was  by  nature,  now 
found  inexhaustible  topics  for  conversation, 
ever  new,  to  prevent  her  submitting  for  an 
instant  to  this  murderous  sleep.  May  we  not 
forgive  the  heart  of  woman  for  the  despairing 
regret  with  which  it  clings  to  the  days  when 


she  was  beloved  ?  when  her  existence  was  so 
essential  to  that  of  another,  that  its  every  in- 
stant was  protected  by  his  arm  ?  What  isola- 
tion must  succeed  that  delicious  time  !  Happy 
they  whom  the  sacred  link  of  marriage  gently 
leads  from  love  to  friendship,  without  one  cruel 
moment  haying  torn  their  hearts. 

At  last  our  voyagers  arrived  at  Terracina, 
on  the  coast  bordering  the  kingdom  of  Naples. 
There  the  south,  indeed,  begins,  and  receives 
the  stranger  in  its  full  magnificence.  The 
Campagna  Felice  seems  separated  from  the 
rest  of  Europe,  not  only  by  the  sea,  but  by 
the  destructive  land  which  must  be  crossed  to 
reach  it.  It  is  as  if  nature  wished  to  keep 
her  loveliest  spot  secret,  and  therefore  ren- 
dered the  roads  to  it  so  hazardous.  Not  far 
from  Terracina  is  the  promontory  chosen  by 
poets  as  the  abode  of  Circe  ;  behind  rises 
Mount  Anxur,  where  Theodoric,  king  of  the 
Goths,  built  one  of  his  strongest  castles. 
There  are  few  traces  of  these  invading  barba- 
rians left,  and  those,  being  mere  works  of  de- 
struction, are  confounded  with  the  works  of 
time.  The  northern  nations  have  not  given 
Italy  that  warlike  aspect  which  Germany 
retains.  It  seems  as  if  the  soft  earth  of  Au- 
sonia  could  not  keep  the  fortifications  and 
citadels  that  bristle  through  northern  snows. 
Rarely  is  a  Gothic  edifice  or  feudal  castle  to 
be  found  here.  The  antique  Romans  still 
reign  over  the  memory  even  of  their  conque- 
rors. The  whole  of  the  mountain  above  Ter- 
racina is  covered  with  orange  and  lemon  trees, 
that  delicately  embalm  the  air.  Nothing  in 
our  own  climes  resembles  the  effect  of  this 
perfume  :  it  is  like  that  of  some  exquisite 
melody,  exciting  and  inebriating  talent  into 
poetry.  The  aloes  and  large-leaved  cactus 
that  abound  here  remind  one  of  Africa's  gi- 
gantic vegetation,  almost  fearfully  ;  they  seem 
belonging  to  a  realm  of  tyranny  and  violence. 
Everything  is  strange  as  another  world,  known 
but  by  the  songs  of  antique  bards,  who,  in  all 
their  lays  evinced  more  imagination  than 
truth.  As  they  entered  Terracina,  the  child- 
ren threw  into  Corinne's  carriage  immense 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


83 


heaps  of  flowers,  gathered  by  the  wayside,  or 
on  the  hills,  and  strewn  at  random,  so  confi- 
dent are  they  in  the  prodigality  of  nature. 
The  wagons  that  bring  the  harvest  from  the 
field  are  daily  garlanded  with  roses.  One 
sees  and  hears,  beside  these  smiling  pictures, 
the  waves  that  rage  unlashed  by  storms  against 
the  rocks,  eternal  barriers  -  that  chafe  the 
ocean's  pride. 

"  E  non  udite  ancor  come  risuona 
II  roco  ed  alto  fremito  marine  1" 

"  And  hear  you  not  how  still  resounds 
The  hoarse  and  deep  roar  of  the  sea  7" 

This  endless  motion,  this  aimless  strength, 
renewed  eternally,  whose  cause  and  end  are 
equally  mysterious,  draws  us  to  the  shore 
whence  so  grand  a  spectacle  may  be  seen,  till 
we  feel  a  fearful  desire  to  come  near  its  waves, 
and  stun  our  thoughts  amid  their  tumultuous 
voices. 

Towards  evening  all  was  calm.  Corinne 
and  Nejvil  wandered  slowly  forth  :  they  step- 
ped on  flowers,  and  scattered  their  sweets  as 
they  pressed  them.  The  nightingale  rests  on 
the  rose  bushes,  and  blends  the  purest  music 
with  the  richest  scents.  All  nature's  charms 
seem  mutually  attracted  ;  but  the  most  en- 
trancing and  inexpressible  of  all  is  the  mild- 
ness of  the  air.  In  contemplating  a  fine  north- 
ern view,  the  climate  always  qualifies  our 
pleasure.  Like  false  notes  in  a  concert,  the 
petty  sensations  of  cold  and  damp  distract 
attentiqn ;  but  in  approaching  Naples  you 
breathe  so  freely,  feel  such  perfect  ease  ;  with 
such  bounteous  friendship  does  nature  welcome 
you,  that  nothing  impairs  your  delight.  Man's 
every  relation,  in  our  lands,  is  with  society : 
in  warm  climates  his  affe'ctions  overflow 
among  exterior  objects.  It  is  not  that  the 
south  has  not  its  melancholy — in  what  scenes 
can  human  destiny  fail  to  awaken  if?  but  here 
it  is  unmixed  with  discontent  or  anxiety. 
Elsewhere  life,  such  as  it  is,  suffices  not  the 
faculties  of  man  :  here  those  faculties  suffice 
not  for  a  life  whose  superabundance  of  sensa- 
tions induce  a  pensive  indolence,  for  which 
those  who  feel  it  can  scarce  account. 

During  the  night  the  fire-flies  fill  the  air : 
one  might  suppose  that  the  burning  earth  thus 
let  her  flames  escape  in  light :  these  insects 
wanton  through  the  trees,  sometimes  alighting 
on  their  leaves ;  and  as  the  wind  waves  them, 
the  uncertain  gleam  of  these  little  stars  is 
varied  in  a  thousand  ways.  The  sand  also 
contain^,  number  of  small  ferruginous  stones, 
that  shine  through  it,  as  if  the  earth  cherished 
in  its  breast  the  last  rays  of  the  vivifying  sun. 
Everywhere  is  united  a  life  and  a  repose  that 
satisfy  at  once  all  the  wishes  of  existence. 


Corinne  yielded  to  the  charm  of  such  a 
night  with  heartfelt  joy.  Oswald  could  not 
conceal  his  emotion.  Oftei  he  pressed  her 
hand  to  his  heart,  then  withdrew,  returned, 
retired  again,  in  respect  for  her  who  ought  to 
be  the  companion  of  his  life.  She  had  not 
thought  of  her  danger  :  such  was  her  esteem 
for  him,  that,  had  he  demanded  the  gift  of  her 
entire  being,  she  would  not  have  doubt-ed  that 
such  a  prayer  was  but  a  solemn  vow  to  make 
her  his  wife  ;  she  was  glad,  however.,  that  he 
had  triumphed  over  himself,  and  honored  her 
by  the  sacrifice  :  her  soul  was  so  replete  with 
love  and  happiness,  that  she  could  not  form 
another  wish.  Oswald  was  far  from  this  calm  : 
fired  by  her  beauty,  he  .once  embraced  her 
knees  with  violence,  and  seemed  to  have  lost 
all  empire  over  his  passion ;  but  Corinne 
looked  on  him  with  so  sweet  a  fear,  as  if  con- 
fessing his  power,  in  entreating  him  not  to 
abuse  it,  that  this  humble  defence  extorted 
more  reverence  than  any  other  could  have 
done. 

They  saw  reflected  in  the  wave  a  torch 
which  some  unknown  hand  bore  along  the 
beach,  to  a  rendezvous  at  a  neighboring  house. 
"  He  goes  to  his  love,"  said  Oswald.  "  Yes," 
answered  Corinne ;  "  and  for  me,"  replied 
Oswald,  "  the  happiness  of  this  day  is  over." 
Corinne's  eyes,  then  raised  to  heaven,  were 
filled  with  tears.  Oswald,  fearing  that  he  had 
offended  her,  fell  at  her  feet,  begging  her  to 
pardon  the  love  whi<ih  hurried  him  away. 
She  gave  him  her  hand,  proposing  their  re- 
turn together.  "  Oswald,"  she  said,  "  you 
will,  I  am  assured,  respect  her  you  love ;  you 
know  that  the  simplest  request  of  yours  would 
be  resistless  ;  it  is  you,  then,  who  must  answer 
for  me  ;  you,  who  would  refuse  me  for  your 
wife,  if  you  had  rendered  me  unworthy  to  be 
so."  "  Well,"  said  Oswald,  "  since  you  know 
the  cruel  potency  of  your  will  over  my  heart, 
whence,  whence  this  sadness  ?"  "  Alas,"  she 
replied,  "  I  had  said  to  myself  that  the  mo- 
ments I'  have  just  passed  with  you  were  the 
happiest  of  my  life  ;  and,  as  I  looked  gratefully 
to  heaven,  I  know  not  by  what  chance  a  child- 
ish superstition  came  back  upon  my  mind. 
The  moon  was  hid  by  a  cloud  of  fatal  aspect. 
I  have  always  found  the  sky  either  paternal 
or  angry  ;  and  I  tell  you,  Oswald,  that  to- 
night it  condemns  our  love."  "  Dearest," 
cried  he,  "  the  only  auguries  are  good  or  evil 
actions  ;  and  have  I  not,  this  evening,  immo- 
lated my  most  ardent  desires  to  virtue  ?"  "  It 
is  well,"  added  Corinne,  "  if  you  are  not  in- 
volved in  this  presage,  it  may  be  that  the 
stormy  heaven  menaces  but  myself." 


CORINNE;    OR,  ITALY. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THEY  arrived  at  Naples  by  day,  amid  its 
immense  population  of  animated  idlers.  They 
first  crossed  the  S-trada  del  Toledo,  and  saw 
the  Lazzaroni  lying  on  the  pavement,  or 
crouch  ins  in  the  osier  baskets  that  serve  them 
for  dwelling's  nigh't  and  day ;  this  savage  state, 
blending  with  civilization,  has  a  very  original 
air.  There  are  many  among  these  men  who 
know  not  even  their  own  names ;  who  come 
to 'confess  anonymous  sins,  as  they  know  not 
what  to  call  the  offenders.  There  is  a  sub- 
terranean grotto,  where  thousands  of  Lazza- 
roni pass  their  lives,  merely  going  at  noon  to 
look  on  the  sun,  and  sleeping  during  the  rest 
of  the  day,  while  their  wives  spin.  In  climates 
where  food  and  raiment  are  so  cheap,  it  re- 
quires a  very  active  government  to  spread 
sufficient  national  emulation :  material  sub- 
sistence is  so  easy  there,  that  they  dispense 
with  the  industry  requisite  elsewhere  for  our 
daily  bread.  Idleness  and  ignorance,  com- 
bined with  the  volcanic  air  they  imbibe,  must 
produce  ferocity  when  the  passions  are  excited; 
yet  these  people  are  no  worse  than  others : 
they  have  an  imagination  which  might  prove 
the  parent  of  disinterested  actions,  and  lead  to 
good  results,  did  their  political  and  religious 
institutions  set  them  good  examples. 

The  Calabrese  march  towards  the  fields 
they  cultivate  with  a  musician  at  their  head, 
to  whose  tunes  they  occasionally  dance  by 
way  of  variety.  Every  year  is  held  near 
Naples  a  fete  to  our  Lady  of  the  Grotto,  at 
which  the  girls  dance  to  the  sound  of  tambou- 
rines and  castanets,  and  they  often  make  a 
c^use  in  their '  marriage  contracts,  that  their 
husbands  shall  take  them  annually  to  this  fete. 
There  was  an  actor  of  eighty,  who  for  sixty 
years  diverted  the  Neapolitans,  in  their  na- 
tional part  of  Polichinello.  What  imrnoTtality 
does  the  soul  deserve  of  the  man  who  has  thus 
employed  a  long  life  ?  The  people  of  Naples 
know  no  good  but  pleasure ;  yet  even  such 
taste  is  preferable  to  barren  selfishness.  It  is 
true  that  they  love  money  inordinately  :  if  you 
ask  your  way  in  the  streets,  the  man  addressed 
holds  out  his  hand  as  soon  as  he  lias  pointed: 
they  are  often  too  lazy  for  words ;  but  their 
love  of  gold  is  not  that  of  the  miser,  they 
spend  as  they  receive  it.  If  coin  were  intro- 
duced among  savages,  they  would  demand  it 
in  the  same  way.  What  the  Neapolitans  want 
most  is  a  sense  of  dignity.  They  perform 
generous  and  benevolent  actions  rather  from 
impulse  than  principle.  Their  theories  are 
worth  nothing ;  and  public  opinion  has  no  in- 
fluence over  them ;  but,  if  any  here  escape  this 
moral  anarchy,  their  conduct  is  more  admirable 
than  might  be  found  elsewhere,  since  nothing 


in  their  exterior  circumstances  is  favorable  to 
virtue.  Nor  laws  nor  manners  are  there  to 
reward  or  punish.  The  good  are  the  more 
heroic,  as  they  are  not  the  more  sought  or 
better  considered  for  their  pains. 

With,  some  honorable  exceptions,  the  high- 
est class  js  very  like  the  lowest;  the  mind  is 
as  little  cultivated  in  the  one  as  in  the  other. 
Dress  makes  the"  only  difference.  But,  in  the 
midst  of  all  this,  there  is  at  bottom  a  natural 
cleverness  and  aptitude,  which  shows  us  what 
such  a  nation  might  become,  If  the  govern- 
ment devoted  its  powers  to  their  mental  and 
moral  improvement.  As  there  is  little  educa- 
tion, one  finds  mor£  originality  of  character 
than  of  wit ;  but  the  distinguished  men  of  this 
country,  such  as  the  Abbe  Galiani,  and  Carac- 
cioli,  possessed,  it  is  said,  both  pleasantry  and 
reflection, — rare  uni6*n,  without  which  either 
pedantry  or  frivolity  must  prevent  men  from 
knowing  the  -true  value  of  things.  In  some 
respects  the  Neapolitans  are  quite  uncivilized ; 
but  their  vulgarity  is  not  like  that  of  others ; 
their  very  grossness  strikes  the  imagina- 
tion. We  feel  that  the  African  shore  is  near 
us.  There  is  something  Numidian  in  the 
wild  cries  we  hear  from  all  sides.  The  brown 
faces,  and  dresses  of  red  or  purple  stuff, 
whose  strong  colors  catch  the  eye,  those  rag- 
ged cloaks,  draped  so  artistically,  give  some- 
thing picturesque  to  the  populace,  in  whom, 
elsewhere,  we  can  but  mark  the  steps  of  civil- 
isation. A  certain  taste  for  ornament  is  here 
found,  contrasted  with  a  total  want  of  all  that 
is  useful.  The  shops  are  decked  with  fruit 
and  flowers:  some  of  them  have  a  holiday 
look,  that  belongs  neither  to  private  plenty 
nor  public  felicity:  but  solely  to  vivacious 
fancy,  which  fain  would  feast  the  eye  at  any 
rate.  The  mild  climate  permits  all  kinds  of 
laborers  to  work  in  the  streets.  Tailors  there 
make  clothes,  and  cooks  pastry, — these  house- 
hold tasks  performed  out  of  doors  much  aug- 
ment the  action  of  the  scene.  Songs,  dances, 
and  noisy  oports  accompany  this  spectacle. 
There  never  was  a  country  in  which  the  dif- 
ferance  between  amusement  and  happiness 
might  be  more  clearly  felt;  yet  leave  the 
interior  of  the  city  for  the  quays,  look  on  the 
sea,  and  Vesuvius,  and  you  forget  all  that  you 
know  of  the  natives. 

Oswald  and  Corinne  reached  Naples  while 
the  eruption  still  lasted.  By  day  it  sent  forth 
but  a  black  smoke,  which  might  be  confounded 
witk  the  clouds ;  but  in  the  evening,  going  to 
the  balcony  of  their  abode,  they  witnessed  a 
most  unexpected  scene.  A  flood  of  fire  rolled 
j  down  to  the  sea, — its  flaming  waves  imitating 
!  the  rapid  succession,  and  indefatigable  move- 
ment of  the  ocean's  billows.  It  might  be  said 
that  nature,  though  exhibiting  herself  in  differ- 


CORIXNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


ent  elements,  yet  preserved  traces  of  a  single 
and  primitiTe  thought.  This  phenomen 
really  makes  the  heart  palpitate.  We  are 
familiarized  with  the  works  of  heaven,  that 
we  scarcely  notice  them  with  any  new  sensa- 
tion in  our  prosaic  realms  ;  but  the  wonder 
which  the  universe  ought  to  inspire  is  sudden- 
ly renewed  at  the  sight  of  a  miracle  like  this : 
our  whole  being  is  agitated  by  its  Maker's 
power, — from  which  our  social  connections 
have  turned  our  thoughts  so  long :  we  feel 
that  man  is  not  the  world's  chief  mystery  ; 
that  a  strength  independent  of  his  own  at  once 
threatens  and. protects  him,  by  a  law  to  him 
unknown.  Oswald  and  Corinne  promised 
themselves  the  pleasure  of  ascending  Vesu- 
vius, and  felt  an  added  delight  in  thinking  of 
the  danger  they  thus  should  brave  together. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THERE  was  «t  that  time  in  the  harbor  an 
English  ship  of  war,  where  divine  service 
was  performed  every  Sunday.  The  captain 
and  other  English  persons  then  at  Naples  in- 
vited Lord  Nelvil  to  attend  on  the  morrow. 
i  He  promised  ;  but  while  thinking  whether  he 
should  take  Corinne,  or  how  she  could  be  pre- 
sented to  his  countrywomen,  he  was  tortured 
by  anxiety.  As  he  walked  with  her  near  the 
|  port  next  day,  and  was  about  to  advise  her 
i  not  to  go  on  board  this  vessel,  a  boat  neared 
j  the  shore,  rowed  by  ten  sailors,  dressed  in 
white,  wearing  black  velvet  caps,  with  the 
Leopard  embroidered  on  them  in  silver.  A 
young  officer  stepped  on  shore,  and  entreated 
vCorinne  to  let  him  take  her  to  the  ship,  call- 
ing her  "  Lady  Nelvil."  At  that  name  she 
blushed,  and  cast  down  her  eyes.  Oswald 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  said  in  English, 
"  Come,  my  dear  :"  she  obeyed.  The  sound 
of  the  waves  made  her  thoughtful,  as  did  the 
silence  of  the  well-disciplined  crew,  who, 
without  one  supsrfluous  word  or  gesture,  rap- 
idly winged  their  bark  over  the  element  they 
had  so  often  traversed.  Corinne  dared  not 
ask  Nelvil  what  she  was  to  anticipate  ;  she 
strove  to  guess  his  projects,  never  hitting  on 
what,  at  all  times,  was  most  probable,  that  he 
had  none,  but  let  himself  be  borne  away  by 
every  new  occurrence.  For  a  moment,  she 
imagined  that  he  was  leading  her  to  a  church- 
of-England  chaplain  to  make  her  his  wife  : 
this  thought  alarmed  more  than  it  gratified 
her.  She  felt  about  to  leave  Italy  for  Eng- 


land, where  she  had  suffered  so  much  :  the 
severity  of  its  manners  returned  to  her  mind, 
and  not  even  love  could  triumph  over  her  fear. 
How  she  would,  in  other  circumstances,  have 
wondered  at  these  fleeting  ideas  !  How  she 
would  have  abjured  them  ! 

She  mounted  the  vessel's  side  :  it  was  ar- 
ranged with  the  most  careful  neatness.  No- 
thing was  heard  from  its  deck  but  the  com- 
mands of  the  captain.  Subordination  and  se- 
rious regularity  here  reigned,  as  emblems  of 
liberty  and  order,  in  contrast  with  the  impas- 
sioned turmoil  of  Naples.  Oswald  eagerly 
watched  the  impression  this  made  on  Corinne, 
yet  he  was  often  diverted  from  his  attention 
by  the  love  he  bore  his  country.  There  is  no 
second  country  for  an  Englishman,  except  a 
ship  and  the  sea.  Oswald  joined  the  Britons 
on  board  to  ask  the  news,  and  talk  politics. 
Corinne  stood  beside  some  English  females 
who  had  come  to  hear  prayers.  They  were 
surrounded  by  children,  beautiful  as  day,  but 
timid  like  their  mothers,  and  not  a  word  was 
spoken  before  the  stranger.  This  restraint 
was  sad  enough  for  Corinne  :  she  looked  to- 
wards fair  Naples,  thought  of  its  flowery 
shores,  its  lively  habits,  and  sighed.  Happily 
Oswald  heard  her  not ;  on  the  contrary,  see- 
ing her  seated  among  his  countrywomen,  her 
dark  eyelashes  cast  down  like  their  light  ones, 
and  in  every  way  conforming  with  their  cus- 
toms, he  felt  a  thrill  of  joy.  'Vainly  does  an 
Englishman  take  a  temporary  pleasure  among 
foreign  scenes  and  people  ;  his  heart  invaria- 
bly flies  back  to  his  first  impressions.  If  you 
find  him  sailing  from  the  antipodes,  and  ask 
whither  he  is  going,  he  answers  "  Home,"  if 
it  is  towards  England  that  he  steers.  His 
vow,  his  sentiments,  at  whatever  distance  he 
may  be,  are  always  turned  towards  her. 

They  went  below  for  divine  service.  Co- 
rinne perceived  that  her  first  conjecture  was 
unfounded,  and  that  Nelvil's  intentions  were 
ess  solemn  than  she  supposed  ;  then  she  re- 
proached herself  for  having  feared,  and  again 
felt  all  the  embarrassment  of  her  situation  ; 
for  every  one  present  believed  her  the  wife  of 
Lord  Nelvil,  and  she  could  say  nothing  either 
to  confirm  or  to  destroy  this  idea.  Oswald  suf- 
fered as  cruelly.  Such  faults  as  weakness 
and  irresolution  are  never  detected  by  their 
possessor,  for  whom  they  take  new  names 
'rom  each  fresh  circumstance  ;  sometimes  it 
is  prudence,  sometimes  it  is  delicacy,  that  de- 
'ers  the  moment  of  action,  and  prolongs  his 
suspense.  He  does  not  perceive  that  it  is  the 
same  character  which  displays  itself  under 
these  varying  circumstances. 

Corinne,   in  spite  of  her  painful  thoughts, 
was  deeply  impressed  by  all  she  witnessed.  . 
Nothing  speaks  more  directly  to  the  soul  than  | 

I 


86 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


divine  service  on  board  ship,  for  which  the 
noble  simplicity  of  the  Reformed  Church  seems 
particularly  adapted.  A  young  man  acted  as 
chaplain,  with  a  firm,  sweet  voice  :  his  face 
bespoke  a  purity  of  soul :  he  stood  "  severe  in 
youthful  beauty,"  a  type  of  the  religion  fit  to 
be  preached  amidst  the  risks  of  war.  At  cer- 
tain periods  the  English  minister  pronounced 
prayers,  the  last  words  of  which  were  re- 
peated by  the  whole  assembly  :  these  confused, 
yet  softened  tones,  coming  from  various  dis- 
tances, re-animated  the  interest  of  the  whole. 
Sailors  and  officers  alike  knelt  to  the  words, 
"  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us  !"  The  Captain's 
sword  trailed  by  his  side,  as  he  knelt,  suggest- 
ing the  glorious  union  of  humility  before  God 
and  courage  among  men,  which  renders  the 
devotion  of  warriors  so  affecting.  While  all 
these  brave  men  addressed  the  God  of  Hosts, 
the  sea  was  seen  through  the  ports ;  the  light 
sound  of  its  now  peaceful  waves  was  audible, 
as  if  saying,  "  Your  prayers  are  heard."  The 
chaplain  concluded  with  a  petition  peculiar  to 
English  sailors.  "  And  may  God  grant  us  the 
grace  to'  defend  our  happy  constitution  abroad, 
and  to  find  on  our  return  domestic  peace  at 
home."  What  grandeur  is  contained  in  these 
simple  words  !  The  preparatory  and  continual 
study  which  the  navy  demands,  the  life  led  in 
those  warlike  and  floating  cloisters,  the  uni- 
formity of  their  grave  toils,  is  seldom  inter- 
rupted, save  ,by  danger  or  death.  Sailors 
often  behave  with  extreme  gentleness  and 
pity  towards  women  and  children,  if  thrown 
on  their  care  :  one  is  the  more  touched  by  this, 
from  knowing  the  heedless  coolness  with  which 
they  expose  their  lives  in  battle,  and  on  that 
main  where  the  presence  of  man  seems  some- 
thing supernatural.  Nelvil  and  Corinne  were 
again  rowed  on  shore  :  they  gazed  on  Naples, 
built  like  an  amphitheatre,  thence  to  took  on 
the  spectacle  of  nature. 

As  Corinne's  foot  touched  the  shore,  she 
could  not  check  a  sentiment  of  joy  ;  had  Os- 
wald guessed  this,  he  would  have  felt  dis- 
pleased, perhaps  excusably  ;  yet  such  displea- 
sure would  have  been  unjust,  for  he  was  pas- 
sionately beloved,  though  the  thought  of  his 
country  always  forced  on  his  adorer  the  memo- 
ry of  events  which  had  rendered  her  misera- 
ble. Her  fancy  was  changeful :  talent,  espe- 
cially in  a  woman,  creates  a  zest  for  variety 
that  the  deepest  passion  cannot  entirely  sup- 
ply. -A  monotonous  life,  even  in  the  bosom 
of  content,  dismays  a  mind  so  constituted. 
Without  a  breeze  to  fill  the  sails  we  may  al- 
ways hug  the  shore  ;  but  imagination  will 
stray,  be  sensibility  never  so  faithful,  at  least 
till  'misfortunes  subdue  these  irregular  im- 
pulses, and  leave  us  but  one  thought,  one 
only  sorrow. 


Oswald  attributed  the  reverie  of  Corinne 
solely  to  the  awkward  situation  of  her  having 
been  called  Lady  Nelvil :  he  blamed  himself 
for  not  extricating  her  from  it,  and  feared  that 
she  might  suspect  him  of  levity.     He,  there-  j 
fore,  began  the  long  desired  explanation,  by  i 
offering  to  relate  his  own  history.     "  I  shall  | 
speak  first,"  he  said,  "  and  your  confidence  ' 
will  follow   minel"     "Doubtless  it   ought,"' 
replied  Corinne,  trembling ;  "  you  wish  it — at  Y 
what  day — what  hour]  when  you  have  spoken, 
I  will  tell  all."    "  How  sadly  you  are  agitated," 
said  Oswald.    "  Will  you  always  fear  me  thus, 
nor  ever  learn  to  trust  my  heart  ?"     "  It  must 
be,"  she  answered  :  "  I  have  written  it,  and  if 
you  insist — to-morrow — "     "  To-morrow  we 
go  to  Vesuvius ;  you  shall  teach  me  to  admire 
it ;  and  on  our  way,  if  I  have  strength  enough, 
I  will  give  you  the  story  of  my  own  doom : 
that   shall   prefcede   yours,   I  am   resolved." 
"  Well,"  replied   Corinne,  "  you  give  me  to- 
morrow :  I  thank  you  for  that  one  day  more. 
Who  can  tell  if,  when  I  have  opened  my  heart 
to  you,  you  will  remain  the  same  1     How  can 
I  help  trembling  beneath  such  doubt  ]',' 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  lovers  commenced  their  route  by  the 
ruins  of  Pompeii.  Both  were  silent,  for  the 
decisive  moment  now  drew,  nigh  ;  and  the 
vague  hope  so  long  enjoyed,  so  accordant  with 
the  clime,  was  about  to  give  place  to  yet  un- 
known reality.  Pompeii  is  the  most  curious  , 
ruin  of  antiquity.  In  Rome  one  scarcely  finds  j 
any  wrecks,  save  those  of  public  works,  asso- 
ciated with  the  political  changes  of  by-gone 
centuries.  In  Pompeii  you  retrace  the  private 
life  of  the  ancients.  The  volcano  which  buried 
it  in  ashes  preserved  it  from  decay.  No  edi- 
fices, exposed  to  the  air,  could  thus  have 
lasted.  Pictures  and  bronzes  keep  their  pri- 
mal beauty,  while  all  domestic  implements 
remain  in  overawing  perfection.  The  am- 
phoras  are  still  decked  for  the  morrow's  festi- 
val. The  flour  that  was  to  have  been  kneaded 
into  cakes  is  yet  there  ;  the  remains  of  a 
female  are  adorned  for  this  interrupted  fete, 
her  fleshless  arm  no  longer  filling  the  jewelled 
bracelet  that  yet  hangs  about  it.  Nowhere 
else  can  one  behold  such  proofs  of  death's 
abrupt  invasion.  The  track  of  wheels  is 
visible  in  the  streets ;  and  the  stonework  of 
the  wells  bears  the  marks  of  the.  cords  that 
had  worn  away  their  edges  by  degrees.  On 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


8? 


the  walls  of  the  guard-room  are  seen  the  ill- 
formed  letters,  and  the  rudely  sketched  figuies, 
which  the  soldiers  had  scrawled  to  beguile 
their  time,  while  Time  himself  was  striding  to 
devour  them.  When,  from  the  midst  of  the 
cross-roads,  you  see  all  sides  of  the  town, 
nearly  as  it  existed  of  yore,  you  seem  to  ex- 
pect that  some  one  will  come  from  these  mas- 
terless  dwellings  :  this  appearance  of  life  ren- 
ders the  eternal  silence  of  the  place  still  more 
appalling.  Most  of  the  houses  are  built  of 
lava, — and  fresh  lava  destroyed  them.  The 
epochs  of  the  world  are  counted  from  fall  to 
fall.  The  thought  of  human  beings,  toiling  by 
the  light  that  consumed  them,  fills  the  breast 
with  melancholy.  How  long  it  is  since  man 
first  lived,  suffered  and  died  !  Where  can  we 
find  the  thoughts  of  the  departed  T  do  they 
still  float  around  these  ruins  1  or  are  they 
gathered  for  ever  to  the  heaven  of  immor- 
tality T  A  few  scorched  manuscripts,  which 
were  partly  unrolled  at  Portici,  are  all  that  is 
left  of  these  victims  to  earthquake  and  volcano. 
But  in  drawing  near  such  relics  we  dread  to 
breathe,  lest  we  should  scatter  with  their  dust 
the  noble  ideas  perhaps  impressed  on  it.  The 

|  public  buildings,  even  of  Pompeii,  which  was 
one  of  the  smallest  Italian  towns,  are  very 
handsome.  The  splendor  of  the  ancients  seems 
always  intended  for  the  general  good.  Their 
private  houses  are  small,  and  decked  but  by  a 
taste  for  the  fine  arts.  Their  interiors  possess 
agreeable  pictures,  and  tasteful  mosaic  pave- 
ments ;  on  many  of  them,  near  the  door-sill,  is 
inlet  the  word  "  Salve."  This  salutation  was 
not  surely  one  of  simple  politeness,  but  an  in- 
vitation to  hospitality.  The  rooms  are  re- 
markably, narrow,  with  no  windows  towards 
the  street,  nearly  all  of  them  opening  into  a 
portico,  or  the  marble  court  round  which  the 
rooms  are  constructed  :  in  its  centre  is  a  sim- 

I  ply  elegant  cistern.  It  is  evident  that  the  in- 
habitants lived  chiefly  in  the  open  air,  and 
even  received  their  friends  there.  Nothing 
can  give  a  more  luxurious  idea  of  life  than  a 
climate  which  throws  man  into  the  bosom  of 
nature.  Society  must  have  meant  something 
very  different  in  such  habits  from  what  it  is 
where  the  cold  confines  men  within  doors. 
We  better  appreciate  the  dialogues  of  Plato 
while  beholding  the  porticoes  beneath  which 
the  ancients  passed  half  of  their  day.  They 
were  incessantly  animated  by  the  beauteous 
sky.  Social  order,  they  conceived,  was  not 
the  barren  combination  of  fraud  and  force,  but 
a  happy  union  of  institutions  that  excite  the 
faculties,  and  develope  the  mind,  making  man's 
object  the  perfection  of  himself  and  his  fellow- 
creatures.  Antiquity  inspires  insatiable  curi- 

j  osity.  The  learned,  employed  solely  on  col- 
lections of  names,  which  they  call  history,  are 


surely  devoid  of  all  imagination.  But  to  pene- 
trate the  past,  interrogate  the  human  heart 
through  many  ages ;  to  seize  on  a  fact  in  a 
word,  and  on  the  manners  or  character  of  a 
nation  in  a  fact :  to  re-enter  the  most  distant 
time,  in  order  to  3onceive  how  the  earth  looked 
in  its  youth,  and  in  what  way  men  supported 
the,  life  whi*h  civilisation  has  since  rendered 
so  complicated  ; — this  were  a  continual  effort 
of  imagination,  whose  guesses  discover  secrets 
that  study  and  reflection  cannot  reveal.  Such 
occupation  was  particularly  attractive  to  Nel- 
vil,  who  often  told  Corinne  that,  if  he  had  not 
nobler  interests  to  serve  in  his  own  land,  he 
could  not  endure  to  live  away  from  this.  We 
should,  at  least,  regret  the  glory  we  cannot 
obtain.  Forgetfulness  alone  degrades  the 
soul,  which  can  ever  take  refuge  in  the  past, 
when  deprived  of  a  present  purpose. 

Leaving  Pompeii  they  proceeded  to  Portici, 
whose  inhabitants  beset  them  with  loud  cries 
of  "  Come  and  see  the  mountain!"  thus  they 
designate  Vesuvius.  Has  it  need  of  a  name  ? 
It  is  their  glory,  their  country  is  celebrated  as 
the  shrine  of  this  marvel.  Oswald  begged 
Corinne  to  ascend  in  a  sort  of  palanquin  to  the 
hermitage  of  St.  Salvadore,  which  is  half  way 
up,  and  the  usual  resting-place  of  travellers. 
He  rode  by  her  side  to  overlook  her  bearers  ; 
and  the  more  his  heart  filled  with  the  gene- 
rous sentiments  such  scenes  inspire,  the  more 
he  adored  Corinne. 

The  country  at  the  foot  of  Vesuvius  is  the 
most  fertile  and  best  cultivated  of  the  kingdom 
most  favored  by  Heaven  in  all  Europe.  The 
celebrated  Lacryma  Christi  vine  flourishes 
beside  land  totally  devastated  by  lava,  as  if 
nature  here  made  a  last  effort,  and  resolved  to 
perish  in  her  richest  array.  As  you  ascend, 
you  turn  to  gaze  on  Naples  and  on  the  fair 
land  around  it :  the  sea  sparkles  in  the  sun  as 
if  strewn  with  jewels  ;  but  all  the  splendors  ot 
creation  are  extinguished  by  degrees,  as  you 
enter  the  regions  of  ashes  and  of  smoke,  that 
announce  your  approach  to  the  volcano.  The 
iron  waves  of  other  years  have  traced  their 
large,  black  furrows  in  the  soil.  At  a  certain 
height  birds  are  no  longer  seen ;  further  on, 
plants  become  very  rare,  then  even  insects 
find  no  nourishment.  At  last  all  life  disap- 
pears ;  you  enter  the  realm  of  death,  and  the 
slain  earth's  dust  alone  slips  beneath  your 
unassured  feet. 

"  Ne  gresei,  ne  armenti 
Guida  bifolco  mai,  guida  partore" 

"  Never  doth  swain  nor  cowboy  thither  lead  the  fiocka  or 
herds." 

A  hermit  lives  betwixt  the  confines  of  life 
and  death.  One  tree,  the  last  farewell  to 


88 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


vegetation,  stands  before  his  door,  and  beneath 
the  shade  of  its  pale  foliage  are  travellers  wont 
to  await  the  night  ere  they  renew  their  course ; 
for  during  the  day  the  fires  and  lava,  so  fierce 
when  the  sun  is  set,  look  dark  beneath  his 
splendor.  This  metamorphose  is  in  itself  a 
glorious  sight,  which  every  eve  renews  the 
wonder  that  a  continual  glare  might  weaken. 


The  solitude  of  this  spot  gave  Oswald  strength 
to  reveal  his  secret's  ;  and,  wishing  to  encour- 
age the  confidence  of  Corinne,  he  said,  "  You 
would  fain  read  your  unhappy  lover  to  the 
depth  of  the  soul.  Well,  I  w'ill  confess  all. 
My  wounds  will  re-open,  I  feel  it ;  but  in  the 
presence  of  immutable  nature  ought  one  to 
fear  the  changes  time  can  bring  1" 


BOOK     XII. 

HISTORY   OF   LORD   NELVIL. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  I  WAS  educated  in  my  paternal  home,  with 
a  tenderness  and  virtue  that  I  admire  the  more, 
the  more  I  know  of  mankind.  I  have  never 
loved  any  one  more  profoundly  than  I  loved 
my  father ;  yet  I  think,  had  I  then  known  as 
I  now  do,  how  alone  his  character  stood  in  the 
world,  my  affection  would  have  been  still  more 
devoted.  I  remember  a  thousand  traits  in  his 
life  that  seemed  to  me  quite  simple,  because 
he  found  them  so,  and  that  melt  me  into  tears 
now  I  can  appreciate  his  worth.  Self-reproach 
on  our  conduct  to  a  dear  object  who  is  no  more, 
gives  an  idea  of  what  eternal  torments  would 
be,  if  divine  mercy  deigned  not  to  soothe  our 
griefs.  I  was  calmly  happy  with  my  father, 
but  wished  to  travel  ere  I  entered  the  army. 
There  is,  in  my  country,  a  noble  career  open 
for  eloquence ;  but  I  am  even  yet  so  timid, 
that  it  would  be  painful  for  me  to  speak  in 
public  ;  therefore  I  preferred  a  military  life, 
and  certain  danger,  to  possible  disgust ;  my 
self-love  is  in  all  respects  more  susceptible 
than  ambitious.  Men  become  giants  when 
they  blame  me,  and  pigmies  when  they  praise. 
I  wished  to  visit  France,  where  the  revolution 
had  just  begun,  which,  old  as  was  the  race  of 
man,  professed  to  recommence  the  history  of 
the  world.  My  father  was  somewhat  pre- 
possessed against  Paris,  which  he  had  seen 
during  the  last  years  of  Louis  XV.  ;  and  could 
hardly  conceive  how  coteries  were  to  change 
into  a  nation,  pretence  into  virtue,  or  vanity 
into  enthusiasm.  Yet  he  consented  to  my 
wishes,  for  he  feared  to  exact  anything,  and 
felt  embarrassed  by  his  own  authority,  unless 
duty  commanded  him  to  exert  it,  lest  it  might 
impair  the  truth,  the  purity,  of  voluntary  affec- 


tion ;  and,  above  all,  he  lived  on  being  loved. 
In  the  beginning  of  1791,  when  I  had  com- 
pleted my  twenty-first  year,  he  gave  me  six 
months'  leave  of  absence  ;  and  I  departed  to 
make  acquaintance  with  the  nation  so  near  in 
neighborhood,  so  contrasted  in  habits,  to  my 
own.  Methought  I  should  never  love  it.  1 
had  all  the  prejudices  of  English  pride  and 
gravity.  I  feared  the  French  raillery  against 
all  that  is  tender  and  serious.  I  detested  that 
art  of  crushing  high  impulses  and  disenchant- 
ing love.  The  foundation  of  this  vaunted 
gaiety  appeared  to  me  a  sad  one,  for  it  wounded 
the  sentiments  I  most  cherished.  I  had  not 
then  met  any  really  great  Frenchmen,  such  as 
unite  the  noblest  qualities  with  the  most  charm- 
ing manners.  I  was  astonished  at  the  free 
simplicity  which  reigned  in  Parisian  parties. 
The  most  important  interests  were  discussed 
without  either  frivolity  or  pedantry,  as  if  the 
highest  thoughts  had  become  the  patrimony  of 
conversation,  and  that  the  revolution  of  the 
whole  world  would  but  render  the  society  of 
Paris  more  delightful.  I  found  men  of  supe- 
rior talents  and  education  animated  by  the 
desire  to  please,  even  more  than  the  wish  to 
be  useful ;  seeking  the  suffrages  of  the  salon 
after  those  of  the  senate,  and  living  in  female 
society  rather  to  be  applauded  than  beloved. 

"  Everything  in  Paris  is  well  combined 
with  reference  to  external  happiness.  There 
is  no  restraint  in  the  minutiae  of  life  ;  selfish- 
ness is  at  heart,  but  not  in  appearance  ;  ac- 
tive interests  occupy  you  every  day,  without 
much  benefit,  indeed,  but  certainly  without 
the  least  tedium.  A  quickness  of  conception 
enables  men  to  express  and  comprehend  by  a 
word  what  would  elsewhere  require  a  long  ex- 
planation. An  imitative  spirit,  which  must, 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


89 


indeed,  oppose  all  true  independence,  gives 
their  intercourse  an  accordant  complaisance, 
nowhere  to  be  found  besides ;  in  short,  an 
easy  manner  of  diversifying  life  and  warding 
off  reflection,  without  discarding  the  charms 
of  intellect.  To  all  these  means  of  turning 
the  brain,  I  must  add  their  spectacles,  and  you 
will  have  some  idea  of  the  most  social  city  in 
the  world.  I  almost  start  at  breathing  its 
name  in  this  hermitage,  in  the  midst  of  this 
desert,  and  under  impressions  the  extreme  re- 


verse of  those  which  active  population  create  . 
owe  you  a  description  of  that  place,  and 


but 


the  effect  it  took  upon  myself. 

"  Can  you  believe,  Corinne,  gloomy  and  dis- 
couraged as  you  have  known  me,  that  I  per- 
mitted myself  to  be  seduced  by  this  spirited 
whirlpool  ?  I  was  pleased  at  having  not  a 
moment  of  ennui ,• ;  it  weuld  have  been  well  if 
I  could  have  deadened^ktf  power  of  suffering, 
and  with  it  that  of  loving.  If  I  may  judge  by 
myself,  I  should  say  that  a  thong^ful  and 
sensitive  being  may  weary  of  his  own  inten- 
j  sity  ;  and  that  which  wooes  him  fr6m  himself 
!  awhile  does  him  a  service.  It  is  by  r; 
me  above  myself,  that  you,  Corinne,  hav 
sipated  my  natural  melancholy ;  it  vn 
depreciating  my  real  value,  that  a  woman  of 
whom  I  shall  have  soon  to  speak,  dissipated 
my  internal  sadness.  Yet,  though  I  was  in- 
fected by  Parisian  tastes,  they  would  not  long 
have  detained  me,  had  I  not  conciliated  the 
friendship  of  a  man,,  the  perfect  model  of 
French  character  in  its  old  loyalty,  of  French 
mind  in  its  new  cultivation. 

"  I  shall  not,  my  friend,  tell  you  the  real 
names  of  the  persons  I  must  mention ;  you 
will  understand  why,  when  you  have  heard 
me  to  the  end.  Count  Raimond,  then,  was  of 
the  most  illustrious  birth  ;  he  inherited  all  the 
chivalrous  pride  of  his  ancestors,  and  his  rea- 
son adopted  more  philosophic  ideas  whenever 
they  commanded  a  personal  sacrifice.  He 
had  not  mixed  actively  in  the  revolution,  but 
loved  what  was  virtuous  in  either  party.  He 
admired  courage  and  gratitude  on  one  side, 
zeal  for  liberty  on  the  other.  Whatever  was 
disinterested  pleased  him ;  the  cause  of  all 
the  oppressed  seemed  just  to  him  ;  and  this 
generosity  was  heightened  by  his  perfect 
negligence  of  his  own  life.  Not  that  he  was 
altogether  unhappy,  but  his  mind  was  so  con- 
trasted with  the  general  society,  that  the  pain 
he  had  daily  felt  there  detached  him  from  it 
entirely.  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  interest 
him ;  he  sought  to  vanquish  my  natural  re- 
serve ;  and,  for  this  purpose,  embellished  our 
friendship  by  little  artifices  perfectly  romantic  : 
he  knew  of  no  obstacles  to  his  doing  a  great 
service  or  a  slight  favor  :  he  designed  to  set- 
tle for  six  months  of  the  year  in  England,  to 


be  near  me  ;  and  I  could  hardly  prevent  his 
sharing  with  me  the  whole  of  his  possessions. 
'  I  have  but  a  sister,'  he  said,  '  married  richly, 
so  I  am  free  to  do  what  I  please  with  my  for- 
tune. Besides,  this  revolution  will  turn  out 
ill,  and  I  may  be  killed ;  let  me  then  enioy 
what  I  have  in  looking  on  it  as  yours.'  Alas  ! 
the  noble  Raimond  but  too  well  foresaw  his 
destiny. 

"  When  man  is  capable  of  self-knowledge, 
he  is  rarely  deceived  as  to  his  own  fate  ;  and 
presentiment  is  often  but  judgment  in  disguise. 
Sincere  even  to  imprudence,  Raimond  '  wore 
his  heart  upon  his  sleeve  :'  such  a  character 
was  new  to  me  ;  in  England  the  treasures  of 
the  mind  are  not  thus  exposed ;  we  have  even 
a  habit  of  doubting  those  who  display  them  ; 
but  the  expansive  bounty  of  my  friend  afforded 
me  enjoyments  at  once  ready  and  secure.  I 
had  no  suspicion  of  his  qualities,  even  though 
I  knew  them  all  at  our  first  meeting.  I  felt 
no  timidity  with  him  ;  nay,  what  was  better, 
he  put  me  at  ease  with  myself.  Such  was 
the  amiable  Frenchman  for  whom  I  felt  the 
friendship  of  a  brother  in  arms,  which  we  ex- 
perience but  in  youth,  ere  we  acquire  one  sen- 
timent of  rivalry,  ere  our  different  careers, 
irrevocably  tracked  out,  have  furrowed  and 
divided  the  field  of  the  future. 

"  One  day  Count  Raimond  said  to  me,  '  My 
sister  is  a  widow.  I  confess  I  am  not  sorry 
for  it.  I  never  liked  the  match.  She  ac- 
cepted the  hand  of  a  dying  old  man,  when  we 
were  both  of  us  poor  ;  for  what  I  have  has  but 
lately  been  bequeathed  to  me.  Yet,  at  the 
time,  I  opposed  this  union  as  much  as  possible. 
I  would  have  no  mercenary  calculations  prompt 
our  acts,  least  of  all  the  most  important  one 
of  life  ;  still  she  has  behaved  in  an  exemplary 
manner  to  the  husband  she  never  loved  :  that 
is  nothing  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Now 
that  she  is  free,  she  will  return  to  my  abode. 
You  will  see  her  :  she  is  very  pleasing  in  the 
main,  and  you  English  like  to  make  discove- 
ries ;  for  my  part,  I  love  to  read  all  in  the  face 
at  once.  Yet  your  manner,  dear  Oswald, 
never  vexes  me ;  but  from  that  of  my  sister  I 
feel  a  slight  restraint.' 

"Madame  d'Arbigny  arrived:  I  was  pre- 
sented to  her.  In  features  she  resembled  her 
brother,  and  even  in  voice  ;  but  in  both  there 
was  a  more  retiring  caution  :  her  countenance 
was  very  agreeable,  her  figure  all  grace  and 
faultless  elegance.  She  said  not  a  word  that 
was  unbecoming  ;  failed  in  no  species  of  at- 
tention ;  and,  without  exaggerated  politeness, 
flattered  self-love  by  an  address  which  showed 
with  what  she  was  pleased,  but  never  com- 
mitted her.  She  expressed  herself,  on  tender 
subjects,  as  if  seeking  to  hide  the  feelings  of 
her  heart.  This  so  reminded  me  of  my  own 


90 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


countrywomen,  that  I  was  attracted  by  it ;  I 
thought,  indeed,  that  she  too  often  betrayed 
what  she  pretended  to  conceal,  and  that 
chance  did  not  afford  so  many  occasions  for 
melting  moments  as  actually  arose  in  her  so- 
ciety. This  reflection,  however,  flitted  but 
lightly  over  my  mind  ;  for  what  I  felt  beside 
her  was  both  novel  and  delightful.  I  had 
never  been  flattered  by  any  one.  In  England, 
we  feel  both  love  and  friendship  deeply  :  yet 
the  art  of  insinuating  ourselves  into  favor  by 
bribing  the  vanity  of  others  is  little  known. 
Madame  d'Arbigny  hung  on  my  every  word. 
I  do  not  think  that  she  guessed  all  I  might 
become  ;  but  she  revealed  me  to  myself  by  a 
thousand  minute  observations,  the  discernment 
of  which  amazed  me.  Sometimes  I  thought 
her  voice  and  language  too  studiously  sweet ; 
but  her  resemblance  to  the  frankest  of  men 
banished  these  notions,  and  bound  me  to  con- 
fide in  her.  One  day  I  mentioned  to  him  the 
effect  this  likeness  had  on  me.  'He  thanked 
me  ;  then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  said.  '  Yet 
our  characters  are  not  congenial.'  He  was 
silent  ;  but  these  words,  and  many  other  cir- 
cumstances, have  since  convinced  rne  that  he 
did  not  wish  to  see  his  sister  my  wife  ;  that 
she  even  then  designed  to  be  so,  I  can  have 
no  doubt,  though  her  purposes  were  not  IS 
plain  as  in  the  sequel.  My  days  glided  on 
without  a  care.  She  was  always  of  my 
opinion.  If  I  began  a  subject,  she  agreed 
with  it,  ere  explained  ;  yet,  with  all  this 
meekness,  her  powrer  over  my  actions  was 
most  despotic  :  she  had  a  way  of  saying, 
'  Surely  you  intend  to  do  so  and  so  ;'  or, 'You 
certainly  cannot  think  of  such  a  step  as  that.' 
I  feared  that  I  should  lose  her  esteem  by  dis- 
appointing her  expectations.  Yet,  Corinne, 
believe  me — for  I  thought  so  ere  I  met  you — 
it  was  not  love  I  felt.  I  had  never  told  her 
that  I  loved  her,  and  was  not  sure  whether 
such  a  daughter-in-law  would  suit  my  father  ; 
he  had  not  anticipated  my  marrying  a  French- 
woman, and  I  could  do  nothing  without  his 
consent.  My  silence,  I  believe,  displeased 
the  lady  ;  for  she  had  now  and  then  fits  of  ill 
temper, — she  called  them  low  spirits,  and  at- 
tributed them  to  very  affecting  causes,  though 
her  countenance,  if  for  a  moment  off  her 
guard,  wore  a  most  irritated  aspect.  I  fan- 
cied that  these  little  inequalities  might  arise 
from  the  uncertainty  of  our  relations  together, 
with  which  I  was  not  satisfied  myself ;  for  it 
does  one  more  harm  to  love  by  halves  than  to 
love  with  all  one's  heart. 

"  Raimond  and  I  never  spoke  of  his  sister  : 
it  was  the  first  constraint  that  subsisted  be- 
tween us  :  but  Madame  d'Arbigny  had  con- 
jured me  not  to  make  her  the  theme  of  my 
conversations  with  her  brother  ;  and,  seeing  me 


astonished  at  this  request,  added,  '  I  know  cot 
if  you  think  with  me,  but  I  can  endure  no  third 
person,  not  even  an  intimate  friend,  to  inter- 
fere with  my  regard  for  another.  I  love  the 
secresy  of  affection.'  The  explanation  pleased 
me,  and  I  obeyed.  At  this  time  a  letter  ar- 
rived from  my  father,  recalling  me  to  Scot- 
land. The  half  year  had  rolled  by  ;  France 
was  every  day  more  disturbed  ;  and  he  deem- 
ed it  unsafe  for  a  foreigner  to  remain  there. 
This  pained  me  much,  though  I  felt  its  pro- 
priety. I  longed  to  see  him  again,  yet  could 
not  tear  myself  from  the  Count  and  Madame 
d'Arbigny  without  regret.  I  sought  her  in- 
stantly, showed  her  the  letter,  and,  while  she 
read  it,  was  too  absorbed  by  sadness  to  mark 
the  impression  it  made.  I  was  merely  sensi- 
ble that  she  said  something  to  secure  my  de- 
lay ;  bade  me  write  Jgprd  that  I  was  ill,  and 
so  evade  my  father'ssltornmands.  I  was  about 
to  reply,  that  my  d^arture  was  fixed  for  the 
morrow,  when  Raimond  entered  the  room, 
and,  hearing  the  state  of  the  case,  declared, 
with  the  •utmost  promptitude,  that  I  ought  to 
obey  my  parent  without  hesitation.  I  was 
struck  by  this  rapid  decision,  expecting  to 
have  been  pressed  to  stay.  I  would  have 
conquered  my  own  reluctance,  but  I  did  not 
like  to  have  my  purposed  triumph  aided  in 
this  manner.  For  a  moment  I  misinterpreted 
my  friend  :  he  perceived  it,  and  took  my  hand, 
saying,  '  In  three  months  I  shall  visit  Eng- 
land ;  why,  then,  should  I  keep  you  here  1  I 
have  my  reasons,'  he  added,  in  a  whisper  ; 
but  his  sister  heard  him,  and  said,  hastily,  that 
he  was  right,  that  no  Englishmen  ought  to  be 
involved  in  the  dangers  of  the  revolution.  I 
now  know  it  was  not  to  such  peril  that  the 
Count  alluded  ;  but  he  neither  contradicted 
nor  confirmed  her  explanation.  I  was  going, 
and  he  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  tell  me 
more.  '  If  I  could  be  useful  to  my  native 
land,  I  should  stay  here,'  he  said  ;  '  but  you 
see  it  is  no  longer  France  ;  the  principles  for 
which  I  loved  it  are  destroyed.  I  may  regret 
this  soil,  but'shall  regain  my  country  when  I 
breathe  the  same  air  with  you.' 

"  How  was  I  moved  by  this  touching  assur- 
ance of  true  friendship  !  How  far  above  his 
sister  ranked  Count  Raimond  at  that  moment 
in  my  heart !  She  guessed  it ,  and  the  same 
evening  appeared  in  quite  a  new  character. 
Some  guests  arrived  ;  she  did  the  honors  ad- 
mirably ;  spoke  of  my  departure  as  if  it  were 
in  her  eyes  the  most  uninteresting  occurrence. 
I  had  previously  remarked,  that  she  set  a  price 
on  her  preference,  which  prevented  her  ever 
letting  others  witness  the  favor  she  accorded 
me  :  but  now  this  was  too  much.  I  was  so 
hurt  by  this  indifference,  that  I  resolved  to 
take  leave  before  the  party,  and  not  remain 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


91 


alone  with  her  one  instant.  She  heard  me 
ask  her  brother  to  let  me  take  lea?e  of  him 
in  the  morning,  ere  I  started  ;  and,  coining  to 
us,  told  me  that  she  must  'charge  me  with  a 
letter  for  a  friend  of  hers  in  England  ;  then 
added,  hastily,  and  in  a  low  voice,  '  You  re- 
gret my  brother  only — you  speak  but  to  him  : 
would  you  break  my  heart,  by  flying  thus  ]' 
In  an  instant  she  stepped  back,  and  reseated 
herself  among  her  visitants.  I  was  agitated 
by  her  words,  and  should  have  stayed  as  she 
desired,  but  that  Raimond,  taking  my  arm,  led 
me  to  his  own  room.  When  the  company  had 
dispersed,  we  suddenly  heard  strange  sounds 
from  Madame  d'Arbigny's  apartment :  he  took 
no  notice  of  them  ;  but  1  forced  him  to  ascer- 
tain the  cause.  We  were  told  that  she  was 
very  ill.  I  would  have  flown  to  her,  but  the 
Count  obstinately  forbade.  '  Let  us  have  no 
scene  !'  he  said,  '  in  these  affairs  women  are 
best  left  .to  themselves.'  I  could  not  compre- 
hend this  want  of  feeling  for  a  sister,  so  con- 
trasted with  his  invariable  kindness  to  me  ; 
and  I  left  him  in  an  embarrassment  which 
somewhat  chilled  my  farewell.  Ah !  had  I 
known  the  delicacy  which  would  fain  have 
baffled  the  captivations  of  a  woman  he  did  not 
believe  formed  to  make  rne  happy,  could  I 
have  foreseen  the  events  which  were  to  sepa- 
rate us  for  ever,  my  adieu  would  have  better 
satisfied  ius  soul  and  mine  own." 


CHAPTER  II. 

OSWALD  ceased  for  some  minutes.  Corinne 
had  listened  so  tremblingly  that  she  too  was 
silent,  fearful  of  retarding  the  moment  when 
he  would  renew  his  narrative.  "I  should 
have  been  happy,"  he  continued,  "  had  my 
acquaintance  with  Madame  d'Arbigny  ended 
there — had  I  never  more  set  foot  in  France. 
But  fate,  or,  rather,  perhaps,  my  own  weak- 
ness, has  poisoned  my  life  /or  ever  : — yes, 
dearest  love  !  even  beside  you.  I  passed  a 
year  in  Scotland  with  my  father  :  our  mutual 
tenderness  daily  increased.  I  was  admitted 
into  the  sanctuary  of  that  heavenly  spirit ;  and, 
in  the  friendship  that  united  us,  tasted  all  the 
consanguine  sympathies  whose  mysterious 
links  belong  to  our  whole  being.  I  received 
most  affectionate  letters  from  Raimond,  re- 
counting the  difficulties  he  found  in  transfer- 
ring his  property,  so  as  to  join  me  ;  but  his 
;ierfeu?erance  in  that  aim  was  unwearied.  I 
loved  him  for  it ;  but  what  friend  could  I  cona- 


paie  with  my  father  ?  The  reverence  I  felf 
for  him  never  checked  my  confidence.  I  put 
my  faith  in  his  words  as  in  those  of  an  oracle  • 
and  the  unfortunate  indecision  of  my  charactei 
was  suspended  while  he  spoke.  '  Heaven  has 
formed  us  for  a  love  of  what  is  venerable,' 
says  an  English  author.  My  father  knew  not, 
could  not  know,  to  what  degree  I  loved  him  ; 
and  my  fatal  conduct  might  well  have  taught 
him  to  doubt  whether  I  loved  him  at  all.  Yet 
he  pitied  me,  while  dying,  for  the  grief  his 
loss  would  inflict.  Ah,  Corinne  !  I  draw  near" 
the  recital  of  my  woes  :  lend  my  courage  thy 
support ;  for  in  truth  I  need  it."  "  My  dear 
friend,"  she  answered,  "  be  it  some  solace  that 
you  unveil  your  nobly  sensitive  heart  before 
the  being  who  most  admires  and  loves  you  in 
the  world."  Nelvil  proceeded  : — "  He  sent 
me  to  London  on  business  ;  and  I  left  him 
without  one  warning  fear,  though  never  to  see 
him  again.  -He  was  more  endearing  than 
ever  in  our  last  conversation  :  it  is  said  that 
the  souls  of  the  just,  like  flowers,  breathe 
their  richest  balms  at  the  approach  of  night. 
He  embraced  me  with  tears,  saying,  that  at 
his  age  all  partings  were  solemn ;  but  I  be- 
lieved his  life  like  mine  :  our  souls  understood 
each  other  so  well,  and  I  was  too  young  to 
think  upon  his  age.  The  fears  and  the  confi- 
dence of  strong  affection  are  alike  inexplica- 
ble ;  he  accompanied  me  to  the  door  of  that 
old  hall  which  I  have  since  beheld  desert  and 
devastated,  like  my  own  heart.  I  had  but 
been  a  week  in  London,  when  I  received  the 
cruel  letter  of  which  I  remember  every  word : 
— '"Yesterday,  the  10th  of  August,  my  brother 
was  massacred  at  the  Tuileries,  while  defend- 
ing his  king.  I  am  proscribed,  and  forced  to 
fly,  to  hide  from  my  persecutors.  Raimond 
had  taken  all  my  fortune,  with  his  own,  to 
settle  in  England.  Have  you  yet  received 
it  1  or  know  you  whom  he  trusted  to  remit  it  ? 
I  had  but  one  line  from  him,  written  when  the 
chateau  was  attacked,  bidding  me  only  apply 
to  you  and  I  should  know  all.  If  you  could 
come  hither  and  remove  me,  you  might  save 
my  life.  The  English  still  travel  France  in 
safety ;  but  I  cannot  obtain  a  passport  under 
my  own  name.  If  the  sister  of  your  hapless 
friend  sufficiently  interests  you,  my  retreat 
may  be  learned  at  Paris  of  my  relation  Mon- 
sieur Maltigues :  but  should  you  generously 
wish  to  aid  me,  lose  not  a  moment ;  for  it  is 
said  that  war  will  shortly  be  declared  between 
our  two  countries."  Imagine  the  effect  this 
took  on  me  !  my  friend  murdered,  his  sister  in 
despair,  their  fortune,  she  said,  in  my  hands, 
though  I  had  not  received  the  least  tidings  of 
it ;  add  to  these  circumstances,  Madame  d'Ar- 
bigny's danger,  and  belief  that  I  could  pre- 
serve her ;  it  was  impossible  to  hesitate.  I 


92 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


sent  a  messenger  to  my  father  with  her  letter, 
and  my  promise  to  return  in  a  fortnight ;  then 
set  forth  instantly.  By  the  most  distressing 
chance  the  man  fell  ill  on  the  way,  and  my 
second  letter,  from  Dover,  reached  my  father 
before  the  first.  Thus  he  knew  of  my  flight, 
ere  informed  of  its  motives  ;  and  ere  the  ex- 
planation came,  had  taken  an  alarm  which 
could  not  be  dissipated.  I  arrived  at  Paris  in 
three  days,  and  found  that  Madame  d'Arbigny 
had  retired  to  a  provincial  town  sixty  leagues 
off:  thither  I  followed  her.  We  were  both 
much  agitated  at  meeting.  She  appeared  more 
lovely  in  her  distress  than  I  had  ever  thought 
her — less  artificial,  less  restrained.  AVe  wept 
together  for  her  noble  brother,  and  distracted 
country.  I  anxiously  inquired  as  to  her  pro- 
perty. She  told  me  that  she  had  no  news  of 
it ;  but  in  a  few  days  I  learned  that  the  banker 
to  whom  Count  Raimond  confided  it,  had  re- 
turned it  to  him  ;  and,  what  was  more  singu- 
lar, a  merchant  of  the  town  in  which  we  were, 
who  told  me  this  by  chance,  assured  me  that 
Madame  d'Arbigny  never  needed  to  have  felt 
a  moment's  doubt  of  its  safety.  1  could  not 
understand  this  ;  went  to  ask  her  what  it 
meant ;  and  found  M.  Maltigues,  who,  with 
the  readiest  coolness,  informed  me  that  he  had 
just  brought  from  Paris  intelligence  of  the 
banker's  return,  as,  not  having  heard  of  him 
for  a  month,  they  had  thought  he  was  gone  to 
England.  She  confirmed  her  kinsman's  state- 
ments, and  I  believed  them  ;  but,  since,  have 
recollected  her  pretexts  for  not  showing  me 
the  note  from  Raimond,  mentioned  in  her  let- 
ter, and  am  now  convinced  that  the  whole  was 
but  a  stratagem  to  secure  me. 

It  is  certain  that,  as  she  was  rich-,  no  inter- 
ested motives  blended  with  her  scheme  ;  but 
her  great  fault  lay  in  using  address  where 
love  alqne  was  required,  and  dissimulating 
when  candor  would  better  have  served  the 
cause  of  her  sentimental  enterprise  ;  she  loved 
me  as  much  as  those  can  love,  who  preconcert 
not  only  their  actions  but  their  feelings,  and 
conduct  an  affair  of  the  heart  with  the  policy 
of  a  state  intrigue.  I  formally  declared  that 
I  would  never  marry  without  my  father's  ap- 
proval ;  yet  I  could  not  forbear  betraying  the 
transports  her  beauty  and  sadness  excited. 
Her  plan  being  to  make  me  captive  at  any 
price,  she  let  me  perceive  that  she  was  not 
thoroughly  resolved  on  repulsing  my  wishes. 
As  I  now  retrace  what  passed  between  us,  I 
am  assured  that  she  hesitated  from  motives 
quite  independent  of  love  and  virtue  ;  nay, 
that  their  apparent  struggles  were  but  her 
own  secret  deliberations.  I  was  constantly 
alone  with  her ;  and  my  delicacy  could  not 
long  resist  the  temptation.  She 'imposed  on 
me  all  the  duties,  in  yielding  me  all  the  rights 


of  a  husband  ;  yet  displayed  more  remor*e, 
perhaps,'  than  she  really  felt ;  and  thus  so 
bound  me  to  her,  that  I  would  fain  have  taken 
her  to  England,  a'nd  implored  my  father's  con- 
sent to  our  union  ;  but  she  refused  to  quit 
France,  unless  as  my  wife.  There  she  was 
wise,  indeed  ;  but  well  knowing  my  filial 
resorutions,  she  erred  in  the  means  she  used  to 
retain  me  in  spite  of  mine  every  duty.  When 
the  war  broke  out,  my  desire  to  leave  France 
became  still  stronger,  and  her  obstacles  to  it 
multiplied.  She  could  obtain  no  passport ; 
and  if  I  went  alone,  her  reputation  would  be 
ruined  ;  nay,  she  should  be  doubly  suspected, 
for  her  correspondence  with  me.  This  wo- 
man, so  mild,  so  equable,  in  general,  then 
gave  way  to  a  despair  which  perfectly  over- 
whelmed me.  She  employed  her  wit  and 
graces  to  please,  her  grief  to  intimidate  me. 
Perhaps  women  are  wrong  in  commanding  by 
tears,  enslaving  by  the  strength  of  their  weak- 
ness ;  yet,  when  they  fear  not  to  exert  this 
weapon,  it  is  nearly  always  victorious,  at 
least  for  a  while.  Doubtless,  love  is  weak- 
ened by  this  sort  of  usurpation  ;  and  the  power 
of  tears,  too  frequently  exerte'd,  chills  the  im- 
agination ;  but,  at  that  time,  there  were  a 
thousand  excuses  for  them  in  France.  Ma- 
dame d'Arbigny's  health,  too,  seemed  daily 
to  decrease  :  another  terrible  instrument  of 
female  power  is  illness.  Those  who  have 
not,  like  you,  Corinne,  a  just  reliance  on  their 
minds,  or  are  not,  like  Englishwomen,  so 
proudly  modest  that  feigning  is  impossible^ 
have  always  recourse  to  art ;  and  the  best  we 
can  then  hope  of  them  is  that  their  deceit  is 
caused  by  a  real  attachment. 

"A  third  party  was  now  blended  with  our 
connection — Monsieur  Maltigues.  She  pleased 
him ;  he  asked  nothing  better  than  to  marry 
her;  though  a  reckless  immorality  rendered 
him  indifferent  to  everything.  He  loved  in- 
trigue as  a  game,  even  while  not  interested  in 
the  stake ;  and  seconded  Madame  d'Arbigny's 
designs  on  me,  ready  to  desert  this  plot  if 
occasion  served  for  accomplishing  his  own. 
He  was  a  man  against  whom  I  felt  a  singular 
repugnance  ;  though  scarcely  thirty,  his  man- 
ners and  person  were  remarkably  hackneyed. 
In  England,  where  we  are  accused  of  coldness, 
I  never  met  anything  comparable  with  the 
seriousness  of  his  demeanor  on  entering  a 
room.  I  should  never  have  taken  him  for  a 
Frenchman,  if  he  had  not  possessed  some 
taste  and  pleasantry,  with  a  love  of  talking 
very  extraordinary  in  a  man  who  seemed 
sated  of  the  world,  and  who  carried  that  di?- 
position  to  a  system.  He  pretended  that  he 
was  born  a  sensitive  enthusiast,  but  that  the 
knowledge  of  mankind  he  owed  to  the  revo- 
lution had  undeceived  him.  He  perceived, 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


93 


he  said,  that  there  was  nothing  good  on  earth, 
save  fortune,  or  power,  or  both  ;  and  that  fine 
qualities  must  give  way  to  circumstances. 
He  practised  on  this  theory  cleverly  enough ; 
his  only  mistake  lay  in  proclaiming  it ;  but 
though  he  had  not  the  national  wish  to  please, 
he  nevertheless  desired  to  create  some  sensa- 
tion, and  that  rendered  him  thus  imprudent : 
he  differed  in  these  respects  from  Madame 
d'Arbigny,  who  sought  to  attain  her  end  with- 
out betraying  herself,  or  seeking  to  shine,  even 
in  her  errors.  What  was  most  strange  in 
these  two  persons  is,  that  the  ardent  one  could 
keep  her  secret,  while  the  insensible  knew  not 
how  to  hold  his  tongue. 

"  Such  as  he  was,  Maltigues  had  a  great 
ascendency  over  his  relative  ;  either  he  guess- 
ed it,  or  she  told  him  all ;  for  with  all  her 
habitual  wariness  she  required,  now  and  then, 
to  take  breath,  as  it  were,  by  an  indiscretion. 
If  Maltigues  looked  on  her  severely,  she  was 
always  disturbed ;  if  he  seemed  discontented, 
she  would  take  him  aside  to  ask  the  reason  ; 
if  he  went  away  angry,  she  almost  instantly 
shut  herself  up  to  write  to  him.  I  explained 
this  to  myself  from  the  fact  of  his  having 
j  known  her  from  her  childhood ;  he  had  managed 
her  affairs  since  she  had  lost  all  nearer  ties  ; 
but  the  chief  cause  was  her  project,  which  I 
discovered  too  late,  of  marrying  him,  if  I  left 
her  ;  for  at  no  price  would  she  pass  for  a  de- 
serted woman.  Such  a  resolution  might  make 
you  believe  that  she  loved  me  not ;  yet  love 
alone  could  have  induced  her  preference  ;  but 
through  life  she  could  mix  calculation  even 
with  passion,  and  the  factitious  pretences  of 
society  with  her  natural  feelings.  She  wept 
when  she  was  agitated,  but  she  could  always 
weep,  because  that  was  the  way  to  express 
emotion.  She  was  ha.ppy  in  being  loved,  be- 
cause she  loved  indeed,  but  also  because  it  did 
her  honor  before  the  world.  She  had  right 
impulses  while  left  to  herself,  but  could  only 
enjoy  them  when  they  nourished  her  self-love. 
She  was  a  person  formed  for  and  by  '  good 
company,'  and  made  that  false  use  even  of 
truth  itself,  which  is  so  often  found  in  a  coun- 
try where  a  zeal  for  producing  effect,  by  cer- 
tain sentiments,  is  much  stronger  than  the 
sentiments  themselves. 

It  was  long  since  I  had  heard  from  my  fa- 
tlner,  the  war  having  cut  off  all  communica- 
tion. At  last,  chance  favored  the  arrival  of  a 
letter,  in  which  he  adjured  me  to  return,  in 
the  name  of  my  duty  and  his  affection  ;  at  the 
same  time  declaring  that,  if  I  married  Mad- 
ame d'Arbigny,  I  should  cause  him  the  most 
fatal  sorrow  ;  begging  me,  at  least,  to  decide 
on  nothing  until  I  had  heard  his  advice.  I 
replied  to  him  instantly,  giving  my  word  of 
honor  that  I  would  shortly  do  as  he  required. 


Madame  d'Arbigny  tried,  first  prayers,  then 
despondence,  to  detain  me  ;  but  finding  these 
fail,  resortnd  to  a  fresh  stratagem  ;  but  how 
could  I  then  suspect  it  ?  She  came  to  me  one 
morning  pale  and  dishevelled,  threw  herself 
into  my  arms  as  if  dying  with  terror,  and  be- 
sought me  to  protect  her.  The  order,  she 
said,  was  come  for  her  arrest,  as  sister  to 
Count  Raimond,  and  I  must  find  her  some  asy- 
lum from  her  pursuers  :  at  this  time  women, 
indeed,  were  not  spared,  and  all  kinds  of  hor- 
rors appeared  probable.  I  took  her  to  a  mer- 
chant devoted  to  my  interest,  and  hoped  to 
save  her,  as  only  Maltigues  shared  the  secret 
of  her  retreat.  In  such  a  situation,  how  could 
I  avoid  feeling  a  lively  interest  in  her  fate  ? 
how  separate  myself  from  her  1  how  say, 
'  You  depend  on  my  support,  and  I  withdraw 
it  lr  Nevertheless  my  father's  image  contin- 
ually haunted  me,  and  I  took  many  occasions 
to  entreat  her  leave  for  setting  forth  alone ; 
but  she  threatened  to  give  herself  up  to  the 
assassins  if  I  quitted  her,  and  twice,  at  noon- 
day, rushed  from  the  house  in  a  frantic  state 
that  overwhelmed  me  with  grief  and  fear.  I 
followed,  vainly  conjuring  her  to  return  ;  it 
happened  fortunately  (unless  by  concert)  that 
each  time  we  were  met  by  Maltigues,  who 
brought  her  back  with  reproaches  on  her  rash- 
ness. Of  course,  I  resigned  myself  to  stay, 
and  wrote  to  my  father,  accounting,  as  well 
as  I  could,  for  my  conduct ;  though  I  blushed 
at  being  in  France,  amid  the  outrages  then 
acting  there,  while  that  country,  too,  was  at 
war  with  my  own. 

"  Maltigues  often  rallied  me  on  my  scru- 
ples ;  but,  clever  as  he  was,  he  did  not  per- 
ceive the  effect  of  his  jests,  which  revived  ail 
the  feelings  he  sought  to  extinguish.  Mad- 
ame d'Arbigny,  however,  remarked  this  ;  but 
she  had  no  influence  over  her  kinsman,  who 
was  often  decided  by  caprice,  if  self-interest 
was  absent.  She  relapsed  into  her  griefs 
both  real  and  assumed,  to  melt  me  ;  and  was 
never  more  attractive  than  while  fainting  at 
my  feet ;  for  she  knew  how  to  heighten  her 
beauty  as  well  as  her  other  charms,  and 
wedded  each  to  some  emotion  in  order  to  sub- 
due me. 

"  Thus  did  I  live,  ever  anxious,  ever  vacil- 
lating, trembling,  when  I  received  no  letter 
from  my  father,  still  more  wretched  when  I 
did  ;  enchained  by  my  infatuation 'for  Madame 
d'Arbigny,  still  more  dreading  her  violence  ; 
for  by  a  strange  inconsistency,  though  the 
gentlest,  and  often  the  gayest,  of  women, 
habitually,  she  was  the  most  terrible  person 
in  a  scene.  She  wished  to  bind  me  both  by 
pleasure  and  by  fear,  and  thus  always  trans- 
formed her  nature  to  her  use.  One  day  in 
September,  1793,  more  than  a  year  after  icy 


94 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


coming  to  France,  I  had  a  brief  letter  from 
my  father  ;  but  its  few  words  were  so  afflict- 
ing, that  I  must  spare  myself  their  repetition, 
Corinne  ;  it  would  too  much  unman  me.  He 
was  already  ill,  though  he  did  not  say  so  ;  his 
pride  and  delicacy  forbade ;  but  his  letter 
breathed  so  much  distress,  both  on  account  of 
my  absence,  and  my  possible  marriage,  that 
while  reading  it  I  wondered  howl  could  have 
been  so  long  blind  to  the  misfortunes  with 
which  I  was  menaced.  I  was  now,  however, 
sufficiently  awakened  to  hesitate  no  more  ; 
and  went  to  Madame  d'Arbigny,  perfectly  de- 
cjded  to  take  leave  of  her.  She  perceived 
this,  and  at  once  retiring  within  herself,  rose, 
saying,  '  Before  you  go,  you  ought  to  be  in- 
formed of  a  secret  which  I  blush  to  avow. 
If  you  abandon  me,  it  is  not  me  alone  you 
will  kill.'  The  fruit  of  my  guilty  love  will 
perish  with  me.'  Nothing  can  describe  my 
sensations  ;  that  new,  that  sacred  duty,  ab- 
sorbed my  whole  soul,  and.  made  me  more 
submissively  her  slave  than  ever.  I  would 
have  married  her  at  once,  but  for  the  ruinous 
consequences  that  must  have  befallen  me,  as 
an  Englishman,  in  giving  my  name  to  the 
civil  authorities.  I  deferred  our  union,  there- 
fore, till  we  could  fly  together  to  England, 
and  determined  never  to  leave  her«till  then. 
At  first  this  calmed  her  ;  but  she  soon  renewed 
her  complaints  against  me,  for  not  braving  all 
impediments  to  make  her  my  wife.  I  should 
shortly  have  bent  to  her  will,  for  I  had  fallen 
into  the  deepest  melancholy,  and  passed  whole 
days  alone,  without  power  to  move, — a  prey 
to  an  idea  which  I  never  confessed  to  myself, 
though  its  persecution  was  incessant.  I  had 
a  foreboding  of  my  father's  illness,  which  I 
considered  a  weakness  unworthy  of  regard. 
My  reason  was  so  bewildered  by  the  shock 
my  mistress  had  dealt  me,  that  I  now  com- 
bated my  sense  of  duty  as  a  passion  ;  and  that 
which  I  might  have  then  thought  my  passion 
tormented  rne  as  a  duty.  Madame  d'Arbigny 
was  perpetually  writing  me  entreaties  to'  visit 
her  ;  at  last  I  went,  but  did  not  speak  on  the 
subject  which  gave  her  such  rights  over  me  : 
indeed,  she  now  less  frequently  alluded  to  it 
herself  than  I  expected  ;  but  my  sufferings  were 
loo  great  for  me  to  remark  that  at  the  time. 

"  At  last,  when  I  had  kept  my  house  on 
one  occasion  for  three  days,  writing  twenty 
.etters  to  my  father,  and  destroying  them  all, 
M.  Maltigues,  who  seldom  sought  me,  came, 
deputed  by  'his  cousin  to  tear  me  from  my 
solitude.  Though  little  interested  in  the  suc- 
cess of  his  embassy,  as  you  will  discover,  he 
entered  before  I  had  time  to  conceal  that  my 
face  was  bathed  in  tears.  '  What  is  the  use 
of  all  this,  my  dear  boy  V  he  said  ;  '  either 
.eave  my  cousin,  or  marry  her.  The  one  step 


is  as  good  as  the  other,  each  being  conclusive. 
'  There  are  situations  in  life,'  replied  I, '  wnere 
|  even  by  sacrificing  oneself,  one  may  not  be 
able  to  fulfil  every  duty.'  'That  is,  there 
ought  to  be  no  such  sacrifice,'  he  added.  '  I 
know  of  no  such  circumstances  in  which  it  is 
necessary  ;  with  a  little  address  one  may  back 
|  out  of  anything.  Management  is  the  queen 
j  of  the  world.'  '  I  covet  no  such  ability  ;'  said 
j  I,  '  but  at  least  would  wish,  in  resigning  my- 
self  to  unhappiness,  to  afflict  no  one  that  I 
love.'  '  Have  nothing  to  do,  then,  with  the 
intricate  work  they  call  love  ;  it  is  a  sickness 
of  the  soul.  I  am  attacked  by  it  at  times, 
like  any  one  else ;  but  when  it  so  happens,  I 
tell  myself  that  it  shall  soon  be  over,  a-nd  al- 
ways keep  my  word.'  Seeking  to  deal,  like 
himself,  with  generalities — for  I  neither  could 
nor  would  confide  in  him — I  answered,  '  Do 
what  we  will  with  love,  we  cannot  banish 
honor  and  virtue,  that  often  oppose  our  incli- 
nation.' 'If  you  mean,  by  honor,  the  neces- 
sity for  fighting  when  insulted,  there  can  be 
no  doubt  on  that  head  ;  but,  in  other  respects, 
what  interest  have  we  in  al/owing  ourselves 
to  be  perplexed  by  a  thousand  fastidious  chi- 
meras V  '  Interest !'  I  repeated  ;  '  that  is  not 
the  word  in  question.'  '  To  speak  seriously,' 
he  returned,  '  there  are  few  men  who  have  a 
clear  view  of  this  subject.  I  know  they 
formerly  talked  of  honorable  juisfof tunes,  and 
glorious  reverses,  but  now  that  all  men  are 
persecuted,  knaves  as  well  as  those  by  cour- 
tesy called  honest,  the  only  difference  i?  be- 
tween the  birds  who  are  trapped,  and  those 
who  escape.'  'I  know  of  other  distinctions,' 
I  replied,  '  where  prosperity  is  despised,  and 
misfortune  honored  by  the  good/  '  Show  me 
the  good,  though,'  he  said,  '  whose  courageous 
esteem  would  console  you  for  your  own  de- 
struction. On  the  contrary,  the  self-called 
virtuous  are  those  who  excuse  you  if  happy, 
and  love  you  if  powerful.  It  is  very  fine  in 
you,  no  doubt,  to  repent  thwarting  a  father, 
who  ought  no  longer  to  meddle  with  your  af- 
fairs ;  yet  do  anything  rather  than  linger 
where  you  may  lose  your  life  in  a  thousand 
ways.  For  my  part,  whatever  happens  to  me, 
I  would,  at  any  price,  spare  my  friends  the 
sight  of  my  sufferings,  and  myself  their  long 
faces  of  condolence.'  '  In  my  opinion,'  inter- 
rupted I,  '  the  ainr  of  an  honest  man's  life  is 
not  the  happiness  which  serves  only  himself, 
but  the  virtue  which  is  useful  to  others.' 
'  Virtue  !'  exclaimed  Maltigues,  '  virtue — '  he 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  then,  with  more  de- 
cision, continued  ;  •  that's  a  language  for  the 
vulgar,  that  even  priests  cannot  talk  between 
themselves  without  laughing.  There  are  good 
I  souls  whom  certain  harmonious  words  still 
I  move  ;  for  their  sakes  let  the  tune  be  played  : 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


95 


all  the  poetry  that  they  call  conscience  and 
devotion  was  invented  to  cosnole  those  who 
cannot  get  on  in  the  world,  like  the  de  pro- 
fundis  that  is  sung  for  the  dead.  The  living 
and  prosperous  are  by  no  means  ambitious  of 
like  homage.' 

"  I  was  so  irritated  that  I  could  not  help 
saying  haughtily,  '  I  shall  be  sorry,  sir,  when 
I  have  a  right  in  the  house  of  Madame  d'Ar- 
bigny, if  she  persists  in  receiving  a  man  who 
thinks  and  speaks  as  you  do.'  'When  that 
time  comes,'  he  answered,  '  you  may  act  as 
you  please  ;  but  if  my  cousin  is  led  by  me, 
she  will  never  marry  a  man  who  looks  forward 
in  such  affright  to  his  union  with  her.  I  have 
always,  as  she  can  tell  you,  censured  her  folly, 
and  the  means  she  has  wasted  on  an  object  so 
little  worth  her  trouble.'  At  these  words, 
which  their  accent  rendered  still  more  insult- 
ing, I  made  him  a  sign  to  follow  me  ;  and,  on 
our  way,  it  is  but  justice  to  tell  you,  he  con- 
tinued to  develope  his  system  with  the  greatest 
possible  coolness  :  he  might  be  no  more,  in  a 
few  minutes,  yet  said  not  one  serious,  one  feel- 
ing word.  'If  I  had  been  addicted  to  all  the 
absurdities  of  other  young  men,'  he  pursued, 
'  would  not  what  I  have  seen  in  my  own  coun- 
try have  cured  me  1  When  has  your  scrupu- 
lousness done  you  any  good  V  '  I  agree  with 
you,'  said  I, '  that  in  your  country,  at  present, 
it  is  of  less  utility  than  elsewhere ;  but  in 
time,  or  beyond  time,  each  man  has  his  re- 
ward.' '  Oh,  if  you  include  heaven  in  your 
calculations — '  '  And  why  not "?  One  or 
other  of  us,  perhaps,  will  soon  know  what  it 
means.'  '  If  I  die,'  he  laughed  forth,  '  I  am 
sure  I  shall  know  nothing  about  it ;  if  you  are 
killed,  you  won't  come  back  to  enlighten  me.' 
I  now  remembered  that  I  had  taken  no  precau- 
tions for  informing  my  father  of  my  probable 
fate,  or  making  over  to  Madame  d'Arbigny  part 
of  my  fortune,  on  which  I  thought  she  had 
claims.  We  drew  near  Maltigues'  house,  and 
I  asked  leave  to  write  two  letters  there  :  he 
assented.  As  we  resumed  our  route,  I  gave 
them  to  him,  and  recommended  Madame 
d'Arbigny  to  him,  as  to  a  friend  of  hers  on 
whom  I  could  rely.  This  proof  of  confidence 
touched  him  ;  for,  be  it  observed,  to  the  glory 
of  honesty,  that  the  most  open  profligates  are 
much  flattered  if  they  chance  to  receive  a 
mark  of  esteem ;  our  relative  position,,  too, 
was  grave  enough  to  have  affected  even  him  ; 
but  as  he  would  not  for  worlds  have  had  me 
guess  this,  he  said  jestingly,  though  I  believe 
prompted  by  deeper  feelings, '  You  are  a  good 
fellow,  my  dear  Nelvil ;  I  would  fain  do  some- 
thing generous  by  you  :  it  may  bring  its  re- 
ward, as  they  say  ;  and  truly  generosity  is  so 
babyish  a  quality, 'that  it  ought  to  be  better  paid 
in  heaven  than  on  earth.  But  ere  I  serve  you, 


our  conditions  must  be  made  plain,  say  what  I 
will — we  fight  nevertheless.'  I  returned  a 
disdainful  consent,  for  I  thought  such  preface 
unnecessary.  Maltigues  proceeded,  in  his 
cold  careless  way  : — '  Madame  d'Arbigny  does 
not  suit  you ;  you  are  in  no  way  congenial ; 
your  father  would  be  in  despair  if  you  made 
such  a  match,  and  you  would  run  mad  at  having 
distressed  him  :  therefore  it  will  be  better,  if  I 
live,  that  I  should  marry  the  lady  ;  if  you  kill 
me,  still  better  that  she  should  marry  another  ; 
for  my  cousin  is  so  highly  sagacious,  even 
while  in  love,  that  she  never  fails  to  provide 
against  the  chance  of  being  loved  no  longer. 
All  this  you  will  learn  by  her  letters.  I  be- 
queath them  to  you  ;  here  is  the  key  of  my 
desk.  I  have  been  her  intimate  ever  since  she 
was  born  ;  and  you  know  that,  mysterious  as 
she  is,  she  has  no  secrets  with  me — little 
dreaming  that  I  should  ever  tell ;  it  is  true  I 
feel  no  impulse  hurry  me  on,  but  I  do  not  at- 
tach much  importance  to  these  things  ;  and  I 
think  that  we  men  may  say  what  we  like  to 
each  other  about  women.  Also,  if  I  die,  it  is 
to  her  bright  eyes  that  I  shall  owe  such  acci- 
dent :  and  though  I  am  quite  ready  to  die  for 
her,  with  a  good  grace,  I  am  not  too  obliged 
by  the  situation  in  which  her  double  intrigue 
has  placed  me ;  for  the  rest,  it  is  not  quite 
sure  that  you  will  kill  me.'  So  saying,  as  we 
were  now  beyond  the  town,  he  drew  his  sword, 
and  stood  upon  his  guard. 

'•  He  had  spoken  with  singular  vivacity.  I 
was  confounded  by  what  I  had  heard.  The 
approach  of  danger,  instead  of  agitating,  ani- 
mated him  ;  and  I  knew  not  whether  he  had 
betrayed  the  truth,  or  invented  a  falsehood  out 
of  revenge.  In  this  suspense  I  was  very  care- 
ful of  his  life  :  he  was  not  so  adroit  a  swords- 
man as  myself :  ten  times  might  I  have  ran 
him  through  the  breast,  but  I  contented  my- 
self with  slightly  wounding  and  disarming 
him  :  he  seemed  sensible  of  this.  I  led  him 
to  his  own  house,  and  brought  him  back  to 
the  conversation  which  our  duel  had  inter- 
rupted. He  then  said,  '  I  am  vexed  at  having 
so  treated  my  cousin :  but  peril  is  like  wine, 
it  gets  into  one's  head ;  yet  I  can  now  excuse 
myself;  it  rested  with  you  to  kill  me,  and  you 
spared  my  life  ;  you  could  not  be  hanpy  with 
her,  she  is  too  cunning ;  now,  to  me,  that  is 
nothing ;  for,  charmed  as  I  am  both  with  her 
mind  and  person,  she  can  never  do  anything 
to  my  disadvantage,  and  we  shall  be  of  service 
to  each  other  when  marriage  makes  a  common 
interest.  But  you  are  romantic,  and  would 
be  her  dupe,  therefore  I  cannot  refuse  the  let- 
ters I  promised  you  :  read  them,  start  ter 
England,  and  do  not  worry  yourself  too  much 
as  to  Madame  d'Arbigny's  regrets.  She  will 
weep,  because  she  toves  you,  but  she  will 


96 


CORINNE ;  OR,  ITALY. 


soon  be  comforted  :  she  is  too  rational  a  wo- 
man to  be  long  unhappy,  or,  above  all,  to 
appear  so.  Tn  three  months  she  shall  be 
Madame  de  Maltigues.'  All  that  he  told  me 
was  proved  true  by  her  correspondence  with 
him.  I  felt  convinced  that  her  blushing  con- 
fession was  a  falsity,  used  but  to  force  me 
into  marriage.  This  was  the  basest  imposi- 
tion she  had  practised  on  me.  She  certainly 
loyed  me,  for  she  even  told  Maltigues  so  ;  yet 
flattered  him  with  such  art,  left  him  so  much 
to  hope,  and  studied  to  please  him  in  a  cha- 
racter so  contrasted  from  that  she  had  ever 
worn  for  me,  that  it  was  impossible  to  doubt 
her  intention  of  marrying  him,  if  her  union 
with  me  was  prevented.  Such  was  the  wo- 
man, Corinne,  who  has  for  ever  wrecked  the 
peace  of  my  heart  and  conscience.  I  wrote 
to  her  ere  I  departed,  and  saw  her  no  more. 
As  Maltigues  predicted,  I  have  since  heard 
that  she  became  his  wife  ;  but  I  was  far  from 
having  tasted  the  bitterest  drop  that  awaited 
me.  I  hoped  to  obtain  my  father's  pardon, 
sure  that,  when  I  told  him  how  I  had  been 
misled,  he  would  love  me  the  more  the 
more  pitiable  I  became.  After  above  a 
month's  journey,  by  night  and  day.  I  crossed 
Germany,  and  arrived  in  England,  full  of  con- 
fidence in  the  inexhaustible  bounty  of  paternal 
love.  Corinne,  I  had  scarce  landed,  when  a 
public  paper  informed  me  that  my  father  was 
no  more.  Twenty  months  have  passed  since 
that  moment,  yet  it  is  ever  present,  like  a  pur- 
suing phantom.  The  letters  that  formed  the 
words,  '  Lord  Nelvil  has  just  expired,'  are 
written  in  flames,  to  which  those  of  the  vol- 
cano before  us  are  nothing.  I  heard  that  he 
died  of  grief  at  my  absence  in  France  ;  fear- 
ing that  I  should  renounce  my  military  career, 
that  I  should  marry  a  woman  of  whom  he  had 
an  indifferent  opinion,  and  settle  in  a  country  at 
war  with  my  own,  entirely  forfeiting  my  repu- 
tation as  an  Englishman.  '  Corinne,  Corinne  ! 
am  I  not  a  parricide  ]  Tell  me.'  '  No,'  she 
cried,  '  no ;  you  are  only  unfortunate  :  your 
generosity  involved  you.  I  respect  as  much  as 
I  love  you ;  judge  yourself  by  my  heart ;  make 
that  your  conscience  !  Your  grief  distracts 
you  ;  believe  one  who  loves  you  from  no 
illusion  •  it  is  because  you  are  the  best,  the 
most  affectionate  of  men,  that  I  adore  you.' 
'  Corinne,'  said  Oswald,  '  these  tributes  are 
not  due  to  me  ;  though,  perhaps,  I  am  less 
guilty  than  I  think ;  my  father  pardoned  me 
before  he 'died.  I  found  the  last  address  he 
wrote  me  full  of  tenderness.  A  letter  from 
me  had  reached  him,  somewhat  to  my  justifi- 
cation ;  but  the  evil  was  done — his  heart  was 
broken.  When  I  returned  to  the  Hall  his 
old  servants  thronged  round  me  :  I  repulsed 
their  consolations,  and  accused  myself  to 


them.  I  knelt  at  his  tomb,  swearing,  that 
if  time  for  atonement  yet  were  left  me,  I 
would  never  ma«»y  without  his  consent. 
Alas  !  I  promised  to  one  who  was  no  more  : 
what  now  availed  my  ravings  1  I  ought,  at 
least,  to  consider  them  as  engagements  to  do 
nothing  which  he  would  have  disapproved 
had  he  lived.  Corinne,  dear  love  !  why  are 
you  thus  depressed  ?  He  might  command 
me  to  renounce  a  woman  who  owed  to  her 
own  artifice  the  power  she  exerted  over  me  ; 
but  the  most  sincere,  natural,  and  generous  of 
her  sex,  for  whom  I  feel  my  first  true  love, 
which  purifies  instead  of  misguiding  my  soul, 
why  should  a  heavenly  being  wish  to  separate 
me  from  her  ] 

"  On  entering  my  father's  room,  I  saw  his 
cloak,  his  footstool,  and  his  sword,  still  in 
their  wonted  stations,  though  his  place  was 
vacant,  and  I  called  on  him  in  vain.  This 
memento  of  his  thoughts  alone  replied.  You 
already  know  a  part  of  it,"  Oswald  added,  giv- 
ing the  manuscript  to  Corinne.  "  Read  what 
he  wrote  on  the  Duty  of  Children  to  their 
Parents  :  your  sweet  voice,  perhaps,  may 
familiarize  me  with  the  words."  She  thus 
obeyed : — 

"  Ah,  how  slight  a  cause  will  teach  self- 
mistrust  to  a  father  or  mother  in  the  decline 
of  life  !  They  are  easily  taught  that  they  are 
no  longer  wanted  on  earth.  What  use  can 
they  believe  themselves  to  you,  who  no  lon- 
ger ask  their  advice !  ye  live  but  in  the  pre- 
sen-t ;  ye  are  wedded  to  it  by  your  passions, 
and  all  that  belongs  not  to  that  present  ap- 
pears to  you  superannuated — ye  are  so  much 
occupied  by  your  young  hearts  and  minds, 
that  your  own  situation  seemed  independent 
of  other  experience,  and  the  eternal  resem- 
blances between  men  at  all  times,  escape 
your  attention.  The  authority  of  experience 
seems  but  a  vain  fiction,  formed  for  the  cre- 
dulity of  age,  as  the  last  enjoyment  of  its  self- 
love.  What  an  error  is  this  ! 

"  That  vast  theatre,  the  world,  changes  not 
its  actors  :  it  is  always  man  who  appears  there, 
though  he  varies ;  and  as  all  his  changes  de- 
pend on  some  great  passion,  whose  circle  hath 
long  and  oft  been  trod,  it  would  be  strange,  if, 
in  the  little  combinations  of  private  life,  expe- 
rience, the  science  of  the  past,  wore  not  the 
plenteous  source  of  useful  instruction.  Honor 
your  fathers  and  mothers,  then  !  respect  them, 
if  but  for  the  sake  of  their  by-gone  reign,  the 
time  of  which  they  were  the  only  rulers, — if 
but  for  the  years  for  ever  lost,  whose  reverent 
seal  is  imprinted  on  their  brows.  Know  your 
duty,  presumptuous  children,  impatient  to  walk 
alone  on  the  path  of  life.  They  will  leave 
you,  do  not  fear  it,  though  so  tardy  in  yielding 
you  place  : — that  father,  whose  discourses 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


merely  advised  the  match,  writing  me  word 
that  he  could  form  no  judgment  of  Lucy's 
character,  as  she  was  still  a  child.  I  have 
seen  her  but  once,  when  scarcely  twelve  years 
old.  I  made  no  arrangement  with  her  mother ; 
yet  the  decision  of  my  conduct,  I  own,  has 
sprung  solely  from  this  wish  of  my  father's. 
Ere  I  met  you,  I  hoped  for  power  to  complete 
it,  as  a  sort  of  expiation,  and  to  prolong,  be- 
yond his  death,  the  empire  of  his  will  ;  but 
you  have  triumphed  over  my  whole  being,  and 
I  now  desire  but  your  pardon  for  what  must 
have  appeared  so  weak  and  irresolute  in  my 
conduct.  Corinne,  we  seldom  entirely  recover 
from  such  griefs  as  I  have  experienced  :  they 
blight  our  hopes,  and  instil  a  painful  timidity 
of  the  future.  Fate  had  so  injured  me,  that 
even  .while  she  offered  the  greatest  of  earthly 
blessings,  I  could  not  trust  her  ;  but  these 
doubts  are  over,  love  :  I  am  thine  for  ever, 
assured  that,  had  my  .father  known  thee,  he 
would  have  chosen  such  a  companion  for  my 
life."  "  Hold !"  wept  forth  Corinne  :  "  I  con- 
jure you,  speak  not  to  me." 

'  Why,"  said  Oswald,  "  why  thus  constant- 
ly oppose  the  pleasure  I  take  in  blending  your 
image  with  his  1  thus  wedding  the  two  dearest 
and  most  sacred  feelings  of  my  heart  V  "  You 
cannot,"  returned  Corinne  ;  "  too  well  I  know 
you  cannot."  "  Just  Heaven  !  what  have  you 
to  tell  me,  then *  Give  me  that  history  of 
your  life."  "  I  will,  but  let  me  beg  a  week's 
delay,  only  a  week  :  what  I  have  just  learned 
obliges  me  to  add  a  few  particulars."  "  How !" 

said  Oswald,  "  what  connection  have  you " 

"  Do  not  exact  my  answer  now,"  interrupted 
Corinne.  "  You  will  soon  know  all,  and  that, 
perhaps,  will  be  the  end,  the  dreaded  end  of 
my  felicity ;  but  ere  it  comes,  let  us  explore 
together  the  Campagna  of  Naples,  with  minds 
still  accessible  to  charms  of  nature.  In  these 
fair  scenes  will  I  so  celebrate  the  most  solemn 
era  of  my  life,  that  you  must  cherish  some 
memory  of  Corinne,  such  as  she  was,  and 
might  have  ever  been,  had  she  not  loved  Os- 
wald." "Corinne,  what  mean  these  hints'? 
You  can  have  nothing  to  disclose  which  ought 
to  chill  my  love  or  my  admiration  ;  why  then 
prolong  the  mystery  that  raises  barriers  be- 
tween us  V  "  Dear  Oswald,  'tis  my  will : 
pardon  me  this  last  act  of  power ;  soon  you 
alone  will  decide  for  us  both.  I  shall  hear 
my  sentence  from  your  lips  unmurmuringly, 
even  if  it  be  cruel ;  for  I  have  on  this  earth 
nor  love  nor  duty  condemning  me  to  live  when 
you  are  lost."  She  withdrew,  gently  repuls- 
irg,  Oswald  who  would  fain  have  followed 
her. 


CHAPTER  III. 

CORINNE  decided  on  giving  a  fete,  united 
as  the  idea  was  with  melancholy  associations. 
When  she  reflected  on  the  character  of  Os- 
wald, it  was  impossible  that  she  should  not  be 
anxious  as  to  the  impression  which  he  might 
take  from  what  she  was  about  to  reveal  to 
him.  She  knew  she  must  be  judged  as  a  poet, 
as  an  artist,  ere  she  could  be  pardoned  for  the 
sacrifice  of  her  rank,  her  family,  her  name,  to 
her  enthusiasm.  Lord  Nelvil  was  indeed  ca- 
pable of  appreciating  genius,  but  in  his  opi- 
nion, the  relations  of  social  life  over-ruled  all 
others ;  and  the  highest  destiny  of  woman, 
nay  of  man  too,  he  thought  was  accomplished, 
not  by  the  exercise  of  intellectual  faculties, 
but  by  the  fulfilment  of  domestic  duties.  The 
cruel  remorse  which  he  had  experienced  in 
departing  from  the  line  of  duty,  which  he  had 
prescribed  for  himself,  fortified  the  moral  prin- 
ciples which  were  innately  his.  The  man- 
ners and  habits  of  England,  a  country  where 
such  respect  for  law  and  duty  exists,  held,  in 
many  respects,  a  strict  control  over  him.  In- 
deed, the  discouragement  deep  sorrows  incul- 
cate, teaches  men  to  love  that  natural  order 
which  requires  no  new  resolves,  no  decision 
contrary  to  the  circumstances  marked  for  us 
by  fate.  Oswald's  love  of  Corinne  modified 
his  every  feeling  :  but  love  never  wholly  effa- 
ces the  original  character,  which  she  perceived 
through  the  passion  that  now  lorded  over  it ; 
and,  perhaps  his  ruling  charm  consisted  in  the 
opposition  of  his  character  to  his  attachment, 
giving  added  value  to  every  pledge  of  his  love. 
But  the  hour  drew  nigh  when  the  fleeting 
fears  she  had  constantly  banished,  and  which 
had  but  lightly  disturbed  her  dream  of  joy, 
were  to  decide  her  fate.  Her  mind,  formed 
for  delight,  accustomed  to  the  varying  moods 
of  poetry  and  talent,  was  wonder-struck  at  the 
sharp  fixedness  of  grief;  a  shudder  thrilled 
her  heart,  such  as  no  woman  long  resigned  to 
suffering  ever  knew.  Yet,  in  the  midst  of 
the  most  torturing  fears,  she  secretly  prepared 
for  the  more  brilliant  evening  she  might  pass 
with  Oswald.  Fancy  and  feeling  were  thus 
romantically  blended.  She  invited  the  Eng- 
lish who  were  there,  and  sorre  Neapolitans 
whose  society  pleased  her.  On  the  day  cho- 
sen for  this  fete,  whose  morrow  might  destroy 
her  happiness  for  ever,  a  singular  wildness 
animated  her  features,  and  lent  them  quite  a 
new  expression.  Careless  eyes  might  have 
mistaken  it  for  that  of  joy  ;  but  her  rapid  and 
agitated  movements,  her  looks  that  rested  no- 
where, proved  but  too  plainly  to  Xelvil  the 
struggle  in  her  heart.  Vainly  he  strove  to 
soothe  her  by  tender  protestations.  "  You 
shall  repeat  them  two  days  hence,  if  you  will," 


100 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


she  said  ;  "  now  these  soft  words  but  mock 
me."  The  carriages  of  Corinne's  party  ar- 
rived at  the  close  of  day,  just  as  the  sea 
breeze  refreshed  the  air,  inviting  man  to  the 
contemplation  of  nature.  They  went  first  Jo 
Virgil's  tomb.  It  overlooks  the  bay  of  Na- 
ples ;  and  such  is  the  magnificent  repose  of 
this  spot,  that  one  is  tempted  to  believe  the 
bard  himself  must  have  selected  it.  These 
simple  words  from  his  Georgics  might  have 
served  him  for  epitaph  : — 

"  DIo  Virgilium  me  tempore  dulcis  alebat  Parthenopc." 
"  Then  did  the  soft  Parthenope  receive  me." 

His  ashes  here  repose,  and  attract  universal 
homage, — all,  all  that  man  on  earth  can  steal 
from  death.  Petrarch  set  a  laurel  beside 
them — like  its  planter,  it  is  dead.  He  alone 
was  worthy  to  have  left  a  lasting  trace  near 
such  a  grave.  One  feels  disgust  at  the  crowd 
of  ignoble  names  traced  by  strangers  on  the 
walls  about  the  urn  :  they  trouble  the  peace 
of  this  classic  solitude.  Its  present  visitants 
left  it  in  silence,  musing  over  the  images  im- 
mortalised by  the  M antuan.  Blest  intercourse 
between  the  past  and  future  !  which  the  art  of 
writing  perpetually  renews.  Shadow  of 
death,  what  art  thou  ?  Man's  thoughts  sur- 
vive ;  can  he  then  be  no  more  1  Such  contra- 
diction is  impossible.  "  Oswald,"  said  Co- 
rinne,  "  these  impressions  are  strange  prepa- 
ratives for  a  fete  ;  yet,"  she  added,  with  wild 
sublimity,  "  how  many  fetes  are  held  thus 
near  the  grave !"  "  My  life,"  he  said, "  whence 
all  this  secret  dread !  Confide  in  me ;  for 
six  months  have  I  owed  you  everything  ;  per- 
haps have  shed  some  pleasure  over  your  path. 
Who  then  can  err  so  impiously  against  happi- 
ness as  to  dash  down  the  supreme  bliss  of 
soothing 'such  a  soul !  it  is  much  to  feel  one's 
self  of  use  to  the  most  humble  mortal ;  but  to 
Corinne  !  to  be  her  support!  trust  me,  is  a 
glory  too  delicious  to  renounce."  "  I  believe 
your  promises,"  she  said  ;  "  yet  there  are 
strange  moments  when  something  strange  and 
violent  seizes  the  heart,  and  painfully  accele- 
rates its  pulsations." 

They  passed  through  the  Grotto  of  Pausi- 
lipo  by  torchlight,  as  indeed  would  have  been 
the  case  at  noon  ;  for  it  extends  nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  league  beneath  the  mountain,  and 
in  the  centre,  the  light  of  day,  admitted  at 
its  extremity,  is  scarcely  visible.  In  this 
long  vault  the  tramp  of  steeds  and  cries  of 
its  drivers  resound  so  stunningly,  that  they 
deaden  all  thought  in  the  brain.  Corinne's 
horses  drew  her  carriage  with  astonishing  ra- 
pidity ;  yet  did  she  say,  "  Dear  Nelvil,  how 
slowly  we  advance !  pray  hasten  them." 


Why  thus  impatient  V  he  asked :  "  formerly, 
while  we  were  together,  you  sought  not  to 
expedite  time,  but  to  enjoy  it."  "  Yet  now," 
she  said,  "  all  must  be  decision ;  everything 
must  come  to  an  end ;  and  I  would  hasten  it, 
were  it  my  death."  On  leaving  the  Grotto 
you  feel  a  lively  sensation  at  regaining  day- 
light, and  the  open  country  ;  such  a  country 
too  !  What  are  so  often  missed  in  Italy,  fine 
trees,  here  flourish  in  abundance.  Italian 
earth  is  everywhere  so  spread  with  flowers, 
that  woods  may  better  be  dispensed  with  here 
than  in  most  other  lands.  The  heat  at  Naples 
s  so  great,  that,  even  in  the  shade,  it  is  im- 
possible to  walk  by  day  ;  but  in  the  evening 
the  sea  and  sky  alike  shed  freshness  through 
the  transparent  air  :  the  mountains  are  so  pic- 
turesque that  painters  love  to  select  their  land- 
scapes from  a  country  whose  original  charm 
can  be  explained  by  no  comparison  with  other 
realms.  "  I  lead  you,"  said  Corinne,  to  those 
near  her,  "  through  the  fair  scene  celebrated 
by  the  name  of  Baiae :  we  will  not  pause 
there  now,  but  gather  its  recollections  into 
the  moment  when  we  reach  the  spot  which 
sets  them  all  before  us."  It  was  on  the  cape 
of  Miseno  that  she  had  prepared  her  fete  ; 
nothing  could  be  more  tastefully  arranged. 
Sailors,  in  habits  of  contrasted  hues,  and  some 
Orientals  from  a  Levantine  bark  then  in  the 
port,  danced  with  the  peasant  girls  from  Ischia 
and  Procida,  whose  costume  still  preserves  a 
Grecian  grace  ;  sweet  voices  were  heard  sing- 
ing from  a  distance  ;  and  instrumental  music 
answered  from  behind  the  rocks.  It  was  like 
echo  echoed  by  sounds  that  lost  themselves  in 
the  sea.  The  softness  of  the  air  animated  all 
around — even  Corinne  herself.  She  was  en- 
treated to  dance  among  the  rustics  :  at  first 
she  consented  with  pleasure,  but  scarely  had 
she  began  ere  her  forebodings  rendered  all 
amusement  odious  to  her,  and  she  withdrew 
to  the  extreme  verge  of  the  cape  ;  thither  Os- 
wald followed,  with  others,  who  now  begged 
her  to  extemporise  in  this  lovely  scene  :  her 
emotions  were  such  that  she  permitted  them 
to  lead  her  towards  the  elevation  on  which 
they  had  placed  her  lyre,  without  being 
scarcely  aware  of  what  they  were  expecting 
from  her. 


CHAPTER  IY. 

STILL  Corinne  desired  that  Oswald  should 
once  more  hear  her,  as  on  the  day  at  the  capt- 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


101 


tol.  If  the  talent  with  which  Heaven  had 
,  gifted  her  was  about  to  be  extinguished  for 
j{  ever,  she  wished  its  last  rays  to  shine  on  him 
l|  she  loved  :  these  very  fears  afforded  her  the 
'  inspiration  she  required.  Her  friends  were 
impatient  to  hear  her.  Even  the  common 
people  knew  her  fame  ;  and,  as  imagination 
rendered  them  judges  of  poetry,  they  closed 
silently  round,  their  eager  faces  expressing 
the  deepest  attention.  The  moon  arose  ;  but 
the  last  beams  of  day  still  paled  her  light. 
From  the  top  of  the  small  hill  that,  standing 
over  the  sea,  forms  the  cape  of  Miseno,  Ve- 
suvius is  plainly  seen,  and  the  bay  and  isles 
that  stud  its  boscin.  With  one  consent  the 
friends  of  Corinne  begged  her  to  sing  of  the 
recollections  that  scene  awakened.  She  tuned 
her  lyre,  and  began  with  a  broken  voice.  Her 
look  was  beautiful ;  but  one  who  knew  her, 
as  Oswald  did,  could  there  read  the  trouble  of 
her  soul.  She  strove,  however,  to  restrain 
her  feelings,  and  once  more,  if  but  for  awhile, 
to  soar  above  her  persona?  situation. 

CORINNE'S  CHANT  IN  THE  VICINITY  OF  NAPLES. 

Here  Nature,  History,  and  Poesie, 
Rival  each  other's  greatness: — here  the  eye 
Sweeps  with  a  glance,  all  wonders  and  all  time, 
A  dead  volcano  now,  I  see  thy  lake 
Avernus,  with  the  fear-inspiring  waves 
Acheron,  and  Phlegeton  boiling  up 
With  subterranean  flame :  these  are  the  streams 
Of  that  old  hell  ^Eneas  visited. 


Fire,  the  devouring  life  which  first  creates 
The  world  which  it  consumes,  struck  terror  most 
When  least  its  laws  were  known. — Ah  !  Nature  then 
Eeveal'd  her  secrets  but  to  Poetry. 

The  town  of  Cuma  and  the  Sibyl's  cave, 
The  temple  of  Apollo  mark'd  this  height ; 
Here  is  the  wood  where  grew  the  bough  of  gold. 
The  country  of  jEneid  is  around  ; 
The  fables  genius  consecrated  here          „ 
Are  memories  whose  traces  still  we  seek. 

A  Triton  has  beneath  these  billows  plunged 
The  daring  Trojan,  who  in  song  defied 
The  sea  divinities :  still  are  the  rocks 
.  Hollow  and  sounding,  such  as  Virgil  told. 
Imagination's  truth  is  from  its  power: 
Man's  genius  can  create  when  nature's  felt ; 
He  copies  when  he  deems  that  he  invents. 

Amid  these  masses,  terrible  and  old, 
Creation's  witnesses,  you  see  arise 
A  younger  hill  of  the  volcano  born : 
For  here  the  earth  is  stormy  as  the  sea, 
But  doth  not,  like  the  sea,  peaceful  return 
Within  its  bonds :  the  heavy  element, 
Upshaken  by  the  tremulous  abyss, 
Digs  valleys,  and  rears  mountains ;  while  the  waves, 
Harden'd  to  stone,  attest  the  storms  which  rend 
Her  depths ;  strike  now  upon  the  earth, 
You  hear  the  subterranean  vault  resound. 
It  is  as  if  the  ground  on  which  we  dwell 
Were  but  a  surface  ready  to  unclose. 
Naples !  how  doth  thy  country  likeness  bear 
To  human  passions ;  fertile,  sulphurous : 
Its  dangers  and  its  pleasures  both  seem  born     - 
Of  those  inflamed  volcanoes,  which  bestow 
Upon  the  atmosphere  so  many  charms, 
Yet  bid  the  thunder  growl  beneath  our  feet. 


Pliny  but  studied  nature  that  the  more 
He  might  love  Italy;  and  call'd  his  land 
The  loveliest,  when  all  other  titles  fail'd. 
He  sought  for  science  as  a  warrior  seeks 
For  conquest:  it  was  from  this  very  cape 
He  went  to  watch  Vesuvius  through  the  flames  :~- 
Those  flames  consumed  him. 

Oh  Memory !  noble  power !  thy  reign  is  here. 
Strange  destiny,  how  thus,  from  age  to  age, 
Doth  man  complain  of  that  which  he  has  lost. 
Still  do  departed  years,  each  in  their  turn, 
Seem  treasurers  of  happiness  gone  by  ; 
And  while  mind,  joyful  in  its  far  advance 
Plunges  amid  the  future,  still  the  Soul 
Seems  to  regret  some  other  ancient  home 
To  which  it  is  drawn  closer  by  the  past. 

We  envy  Roman  grandeur— did  they  not 
Envy  their  fathers'  brave  simplicity  1 
Once  this  voluptuous  country  they  despised  ; 
Its  pleasures  but  subdued  their  enemies. 
See,  in  the  distance,  Capua !  she  o'ercame 
The  warrior,  whose  firm  soul  resisted  Rome 
More  time  than  did  a  world. 

The  Romans  in  their  turn  dwelt  on  these  plains, 
When  strength  of  mind  but  only  served  to  feel 
More  deeply  shame  and  grief;  effeminate, 
They  sank  without  remorse.    Yet  Bais  saw 
The  conquer'd  sea  give  place  to  palaces : 
Columns  were  dug  from  mountains  rent  in  twain, 
And  the  world's  masters,  now  in  their  turn  slaves, 
Made  nature  subject  to  console  themselves 
That  they  were  subject  too. 

And  Cicero  on  this  promontory  died : 
This  GaBta  we  see.    Ah  !  no  regard 
Those  triumvirs  paid  to  posterity, 
Robbing  her  of  the  thoughts  yet  unconceived 
Of  this  great  man  :  their  crime  continues  stil] ; 
Committed  against  us  was  this  offence. 

Cicero  'neath  the  tyrant's  dagger  fell, 
But  Scipfo,  more  unhappy,  was  exiled 
With  yet  his  country  free.    Beside  this  shore 
He  died;  and  still  the  ruins  of  his  tomb 
Retain  the  name,  "  Tower  of  my  native  land  :"* 
Touching  allusion  to  the  memory 
Which  haunted  his  great  soul. 

Marius  found  a  refuge  in  yon  marsh,  t 
Near  to  the  Scipio's  home.    Thus  in  all  time 
Have  nations  persecuted  their  great  men. 
But  they  enskied  them  after  death  ;t  and  Heaven, 
Where  still  the  Romans  deemed  they  could  command, 
Received  amid  her  planets  Romulus, 
Numa,  and  C.-esar;  new  and  dazzling  stars  ! 
Mingling  together  in  our  erring  gaze 
The  rays  of  glory  and  celestial  light. 

And  not  enough  alone  of  misery, 
The  trace  of  crime  is  here.    In  yonder  gulf  behoia 
The  isle  of  Capri,  where  at  length  old  age 
Disana'd  Tiberius ;  violent,  yet  worn ; 


*  "  La  tour  de  la  patrie."  Patrie  can  scarce  be  rendered 
by  a  single  word :  "native  land"  perhaps  best  expresses 
the  ancient  patria.— L.  E.  L. 

t  Minturno. 

J  "  Us  sent  consoles  par  1'apotheose."    This  is  the  only 
instance  in  which  I  have  not  given,  as  nearly  a*  possible, 
the  English  word  that  answered  most  exactly  ;  but  I  con- 
fess one  so  long  as  "  apotheosis  "  fairly  baffled  my  efforts 
to  get  it  into  rhythm.    It  is  curious  to  rotice  how  runny  \ 
Pagan  observances  were  grafted  on  the  Roman  Catholic  I 
worship.    Canonization  is  but  a  Christian  apotheosis, —  f 
only  the  deceased  turned  into  saints  instead  of  gods. — L.  I 
E.  L. 


102                                        CORINNE  ; 

OR,  ITALY. 

Cruel,  voluptuous  ;  wearied  e'en  of  crime, 

BIysterious  enthusiasm,  Love  ! 

He  sought  yet  viler  pleasures  ;  as  he  were 

The  heart's  supremest  power  ;  —  which  doth  combine 

Not  low  enough  debased  by  tyranny. 
And  Agrippina's  tomb  is  on  these  shores, 

Within  itself  religion,  poetry. 
And  heroism.    Love,  what  may  befall 

Facing  the  isle,*  rear'd  after  Nero's  death  ; 

When  destiny  has  bade  us  separate 

The  murder  of  his  mother  had  proscribed 

From  him  who  has  the  secret  of  our  POU!  ; 

Even  her  ashes.    Long  at  Bake  he  dwelt 

Who  gave  us  the  heart's  life,  celestial  life. 

Amid  the  memories  of  his  «iany  crimes.' 

What  may  befall  when  absence,  or  when  death 

What  wretches  fate  here  brings  before  our  eyes  ! 

Isolate  woman  on  this  earth  7  —  She  pines 

Tiberius,  Nero,  on  each  other  gaze. 

She  sinks.    How  often  have  these  rocks 

OfferVl  their  cold  support  to  the  forlorn  ! 

The  isles,  volcano-born  amid  the  sea, 

Those  once  worn  in  the  heart  ;  —  those  once  austain'd 

Served  at  their  birth  the  crimes  of  the  old  world. 

Upon  a  hero's  arm. 

The  sorrowing  exiles  on  these  lonely  rocks, 

Watch'd  'mid  the  waves  their  natir'e  land  afar, 

Before  you  is  Sorrento  :  —  dwelling  there 

Seeking  to  catch  its  perfumes  in  the  air  ; 

Was  Tasso's  sister,  when  the  pilgrim  came 

And  often,  a  long  exile  worn  away, 

Asking  asvlum  'gainst  the  prince  unjust 

Sentence  of  sudden  death  arrived  to  show 

From  humble  friends:  long  grief  had  almost  quench'4 

They  were  remembered  by  their  enemies. 

Reason's  clear  light,  but  genius  still  was  left. 

O  Earth!  all  bathed  with  blood  and  tears,  yet  never 
Hast  thou  ceased  putting  forth  thy  fruits  and  flowers; 
And  hast  thou  then  no  pity  for  mankind  1 

When  earthly  images  were  all  obscured. 
Thus  shrieking  from  the  desert  spread  around 
Doth  Genius  wander  through  the  world,  and  finds 
No  likeness  to  itself;  no  echo  given 

Can  thy  maternal  breast  receive  again 

By  Nature  ;  and  the  common  crowd  but  hold 

Their  dust,  and  yet  not  throb  7 

As  madness  that  desire  of  the  rapt  soul, 

Which  finds  not  in  this  world  enough  of  air— 

Here    Corinne    paused    for  some  moments. 
All  her  assembled  hearers  threw  laurels  and 

Of  high  enthusiasm,  or  of  hope. 
For  Destiny  compels  exalted  minds  :  — 
The  poet,  whose  imagination  draws 

myrtle  at  her  feet.     The  soft,  pure,  moonlight 
fell  on  her  brow,  and  the  breeze  wantoned 

Its  power  from  loving  and  from  suffering,  — 
They  are  the  vanish'd  from  another  sphere. 
For  the  Almighty  goodness  might  not  frame 

with  her  ringlets  as  if   nature  delighted   to 

All  for  the  few,  —  the  elect  or  the  prescribed. 

adorn  her  :  she  was  so  overpowered  as  she 

What  had  this  terrible  Fate  to  do  with  them, 

looked  on  the  enchanting  scene,  and  on  Os- 

The common  and  the  quiet,  who  pursue 

wald,  who  shared  this  delicious  eve  with  her, 
yet  might  not  be  thus  near  for  ever,  that  tears 

The  seasons,  and  still  follow  timidly 
The  beaten  track  of  ordinary  life  7 
But  she,  the  priestess  of  the  oracle, 

flowed  from  her  eyes.     Even  the  crowd,  who 
had  just  applauded  her  so  tumulluously,  re- 

Shook with  the  presence  of  the  cruel  power. 
I  know  not  what  the  involuntary  force 
That  plunges  Genius  into  misery. 

spected  her  emotion,  and  mutely  awaited  her 
words,  which  they  trusted  would  make  them 
participators  in  her  feelings.     She  preluded 
for  some  time  on  her  lyre,  then,  no  longer  di- 
viding her  song  into  stanzas,  abandoned  her- 

Genius doth  catch  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
Which  mortal  ear  was  never  meant  to  know. 
Genius  can  penetrate  the  mysteries 
Of  feeling,  all  unknown  to  other  hearts  ; 
A  power  hath  entered  in  the  inmost  soul, 
Whose  presence  may  not  be  contained. 

self  to  the  uninterrupted  stream  of  verse. 

Sublime  Creator  of  this  lovely  world, 

Protect  us:  our  exertions  have  no  strength, 

Our  hope's  a  lie.    Tumultuous  tyranny 

Some  memories  of  the  heart,  some  woman's  manes 

Our  passions  exercise,  and  neither  leave 

Yet  ask  your  tears.    'Twas  at  this  very  place, 

Repose  nor  liberty.    What  we  may  do 

Massena,  (•  that  Cornelia  kept  till  death 

To-morrow  may  perhaps  decide  our  fate. 

Her  noble  mourning  ;  Agrippinatoo 

We  may  have  said  but  yesterday  some  word 

Long  wept  Germanicus  beside  these  shores. 

Which  may  not  be  recalled.    Still  when  our  mind 

At  length  the  same  assassin  who  deprived 

Is  elevate  with  noble  thoughts,  we  feel 

1  Her  of  her  husband,  found  she  was  at  last 

As  on  the  height  of  some  great  edifice, 

Worthy  to  follow  him.    And  yonder  isle} 

Giddiness  blending  all  things  in  our  sight; 

Saw  Brutus  and  his  Portia  bid  farewell. 

But  even  there,  wo  !  terrible  wo  !  appears. 

Thug  women  loved  of  heroes  have  beheld 

Not  lost  amid  the  clouds,  it  pierces  through  ; 
It  flings  the  shades  asunder  ;  Oh  my  God  ! 

The  object  perish  which  they  so  adored. 

Long  time  in  vain  they  follow'd  in  their  path  ; 
There  came  the  hour  when  they  were  forced  to  part. 
Portia  destroyed  herself;  Cornelia  clasp'd 
The  sacred  urn  which  answer'd  not  her  cries  ; 
And  Agrippina,  for  how  many  years  ! 

At  these  words  a  mortal  paleness  overspread 
her  countenance  ;  her  eyes  closed  ;  and  she 
would  have  fallen  to  the  earth,  had  not  Os- 

Vainly her  husband's  murderer  defied. 
And  wander'd  here  the  wretched  oues,  like  ghosts 

wald  rushed  to  support  her. 

On  wasted  shores  of  the  eternal  stream, 

Sighing  to  reach  the  other  far-off  land. 

Did  they  not  ask  in  their  long  solitude 

i 

Of  silence,  of  all  nature,  of  the  sky, 

Star-shining  7  —  and  from  the  deep  sea,  one  sound, 

One  only  tone  of  the  beloved  voice 

They  never  more  might  hear. 

CHAPTER  V. 

CORINNE  revived  :  the  affecting  interest  of 

*  Caprea. 
t  The  retreat  of  Pompey.                 }  Nisida. 

Oswald's  look  restored  her  to  some  composure 

CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


103 


The  Neapolitans  were  surprised  at  the  gloomy 
character  of  her  poetry,  much  as  they  admired 
it.  They  thought  it  the  Muse's  task  to  dissi- 
pate the  sorrows  of  life,  and  not  to  explore 
their  terrible  secrets ;  but  the  English  who 
were  present  seemed  deeply  touched.  Their 
own  melancholy,  embellished  by  Italian  imagi- 
nation, delighted  them.  This  lovely  woman, 
wbrse  features  seemed  designed  to  depict  feli- 
city,— this  child  of  the  sun,  a  prey  to  hidden 
grief, — was  like  a  flower,  still  fresh  and  bril- 
liant, but  within  whose  leaves  may  be  seen  the 
first  dark,  impress  of  that  withering  blight 
which  soon  shall  lay  it  low.  The  party  em- 
barked to  return :  the  glowing  calm  of  the 
hour  made  it  a  luxury  to  be  upon  the  sea. 
Gothe  has  described,  in  a  delicious  romance, 
the  passion  felt,  in  warra  climates,  for  the 
water.  A  nymph  of  the  flood  boasts  to  the 
fisherman  the  charms  of  her  abode ;  invites 
him  to  taste  its  refreshment,  and,  by  degrees, 
allures  him  to  his  death.  This  magic  of  the 
i  tide  resembles  that  of  the  basilisk,  which  fasci- 
nates by  fear.  The  wave  rising  gently  afar, 
swelling,  and  hurrying  as  it  nears  the  shore,  is 
but  a  type  of  the  passion  that  dawns  in  soft- 
ness, but  soon  grows  invincible.  Corinne  put 
back  her  tresses,  that  she  might  the  better  en- 
joy the  air  :  her  countenance  was  thus  more 
beautiful  than  ever.  The  musicians,  who  fol- 
lowed in  another  boat,  poured  forth  enchant- 
ments that  harmonized  with  the  stars,  the  sea, 
and  the  sweet  intoxication  of  an  Italian  even- 
ing. "  Oh,  my  heart's  love  !"  whispered  Os- 
wald, "  can  I  ever  forget  this  day,  or  ever  en- 
joy a  happier  V  His  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
One  of  his  most  seductive  attributes  was  this 
ready  yet  restrained  sensibility,  which  so  oft, 
in  spite  of  him,  bedewed  his  lids  ;  at  such  mo- 
ments he  was  irresistible  :  sometimes  even  in 
the  midst  of  an  endearing  pleasantry,  a  melting 
thrill  stole  on  his  mirth,  and  lent  it  a  new,  a 
noble  charm.  "  Alas !"  returned  Corinne, 
"  I  hope  not  for  another  day  like  this  ;  but  be  it 
blest,  at  least,  as  the  last  such  of  my  life,  if 
forbidden  to  prove  the  dawn  of  more  endear- 
ing bliss." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  weather  changed  ere  they  reached  Na- 
ples :  the  heavens  darkened,  and  the  coming 
Btorm,  already  felt  in  the  air,  convulsed  the 
waves,  as  if  the  sea  sympathized  with  the  sky. 
Oswald  preceded  Corinne,  that  he  might  see 


flambeaux  borne  the  more  steadily  before  her. 
As  they  neared  the  quay,  he  saw  some  Laz- 
zaroni  assembled,  crying,  "  Poor  creature  !  he 
cannot  save  himself!  we  must  be  patient." 
"  Of  whom  speak  ye  V  cried  Nelvil  impetu- 
ously. "  An  old  man,"  they  replied,  "  who 
was  bathing  below  there,  not  far  from  the 
mole  ;  but  the  storm  has  risen  :  he  is  too  weak 
to  struggle  with  it."  Oswald's  first  impulse 
was  to  plunge  into  the  water  ;  then  reflecting 
on  the  alarm  he  should  cause  Corinne,  when 
she  came,  he  offered  all  the  money  he  had 
with  him,  promising  to  double  it,  for  the  man 
who  would  swim  to  this  unfortunate  being's 
assistance  :  but  the  Lazzaroni  all  refused, 
saying,  "  It  cannot  be,  the  danger  is  too  fear- 
ful." At  that  moment  the  old  man  sunk. 
Oswald  could  hesitate  no  longer  :  he  threw  off 
his  coat,  and  sprang  into  the -sea,  spite  of  its 
waves,  that  dashed  above  his  head  :  he  buffet- 
ed them  bravely  ;  seized  the  sufferer,  who 
must  have  perished  had  he  been  a  moment 
later,  and  brought  him  to  the  land ;  hut  the 
sudden  chill  and  violent  exertion  so  over- 
whelmed Lord  Nelvil,  that  he  had  scarcely 
seen  his  charge  in  safety,  when  he  fell  on  the 
earth  insensible,  and  so  pallid,  that  the  by- 
standers believed  him  a  corpse  (28).  It  was 
then  that  the  unconscious  Corinne  beheld  the 
crowd,  heard  them  cry,  "  He  is  dead,"  and 
would  have  drawn  back  in  terror ;  when  she 
saw  one  of  the  Englishmen  who  had  accom- 
panied her,  break  eagerly  through  the  people  : 
she  made  some  steps  to  follow  him ;  and  the 
first  object  which  met  her  eye  was  a  portion 
of  Oswald's  dress,  lying  on  the  bank.  She 
seized  it  with  a  desperation,  believing  it  was 
all  that  was  left  of  her  love  ;  and  when  she 
saw  him,  lifeless  as  he  appeared,  she  threw 
herself  on  his  breast,  in  transport,  and  ardently 
pressed  him  to  her  heart :  and  with  what  in- 
expressible rapture  did  she  detect  that  his  still 
beat,  perhaps  reanimated  by  her  presence  ! 
"  He  lives !"  she  cried,  "  he  lives  !"  and  in- 
stantly regained  a  strength,  a  courage,  such  as 
mere  friends  could  scarcely  equal.  She  sent 
for  everything  that  could  revive  him1?  and 
herself  applied  these  restoratives,  supporting 
his  fainting  head  upon  her  breast,  and,  though 
she  wept  over  it,  forgetting  nothing,  losing  not 
a  moment,  nor  permitting  her  grief  to  inter- 
rupt her  cares.  Oswald  grew  better,  but  re- 
sumed not  yet  the  use  of  his  senses.  She  had 
him  carried  to  his  hotel,  and,  kneeling  beside 
him,  bathed  his  brow  with 'stimulating  per- 
fumes, calling  on  him  in  tones  of  impassioned 
tenderness  that  might  have  waked  the  dead. 
He  opened  his  eyes,  and  pressed  her  hand. 
For  the  joy  of  such  a  moment  might  one  not 
endure  the  tortures  of  demons  !  Poor  human 
nature  !  We  guess  at  infinitude  but  by  suffer- 


104 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


ing :  and  not  a  bliss  in  life  can  compensate  the 
anguish  of  beholding  those  we  love  expire. 
"  Cruel,  cruel !"  cried  Corinne  ;  "  think  what 
you  have  done !"  "  Pardon !"  he  replied  in  a 
trembling  voice.  "  Believe  me,  dearest,  while 
I  thought  myself  dying,  I  trembled  but  for 
thee."  Exquisite  expression  of  mutual  love 
and  confidence !  Corinne,  to  her  last  day, 
could  not  recall  these  words  without  a  fond- 
ness, which,  while  it  lasted,  taught  her  to  for- 
give him  all. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

OSWALD'S  next  impulse  was  to  thrust  his 
hand  into  his  bosom  for  his  father's  portrait : 
it  was  still  there  ;  but  the  water  had  left  it 
scarcely  recognizable  :  he  was  bitterly  afflict- 
ed by  this  loss.  "  My  God  !"  he  cried,  "  dost 
thou  deny  me  even  this  image?"  Corinne 
besought  his  permission  to  restore  it :  he  con- 
sented, without  much  hope  :  what  then  was 
his  amaze,  when,  on  the  third  morning,  she 
brought  it  to  him,  not  only  repaired,  but  more 
faithful  than  ever !  "  Yes,"  cried  Oswald, 
"  you  have  divined  his  features  and  his  look. 
This  heavenly  miracle  decides  you  for  my 
life's  companion,  since  to  you  is  thus  revealed 
the  memory  of  one  who  must  for  ever  dispose 


my  fate.  Here  is  the  ring  my  father  gave  his 
wife — the  sacred  bond  sincerely  offered  by 
the  noblest,  and  accepted  by  the  most  constant, 
of  hearts.  Let  me  transfer  it  from  my  hand 
to  thine,  and,  while  thou  keepest  it,  be  no 
longer  free.  I  take  this  solemn  oath,  not 
knowing  to  whom,  but  in  thy  soul,  I  trust,  that 
tells  me  all :  the  events  of  your  life,  if  spring- 
ing from  yourself,  mu&t  needs  be  lofty  as  your 
character.  If  you  have  been  the  victim  to 
an  unworthy  fate,  thank  Heaven  I  can  repair 
it ;  therefore,  my  own  Corinne,  you  owe  your 
secrets  to  one  whose  promises  precede  your 
confidence."  "  Oswald,"  she  answered,  "  this 
delirium  is  the  result  of  a  mistake.  I  cannot 
accept  your  ring  till  I  have  undeceived  you. 
An  inspiration  of  the  heart,  you  think,  taught 
me  your  father's  features  :  I  ought  to  tell  you 
that  I  have  seen  him  often."  "  Seen  him  ! 
how  t  when  1  where  ?  O  God  !  who  are  you, 
then !"  "  Here  is  your  ring,"  returned  Co- 
rinne, in  a  smothered  tone.  "  No,''  cried  Os- 
wald, after  a  moment's  pause  :  "  I  swear  never 
to  wed  another  till  you  send  back  that  ring. 
Forgive  the  tumult  you  have  raised  within 
me :  confused  and  half-forgotten  thoughts 
afflict  my  mind."  "  I  see  it,"  said  Corinne, 
"  and  this  shall  end  :  already  your  accents  and 
your  words  are  changed.  Perhaps  when  you 
have  read  my  history,  the  horrid  word  adieu — " 
No,  no,"  cried  Nelvil ;  "  only  from  my  death- 
bed— fear  not  that  word  till  then."  Corinne 
etired,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  Theresina 
brought  him  the  papers  which  he  was  now  to 
read. 


BOOK     XII. 

HISTORY       OF       CORINNE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  OSWALD,  1  begin  with  the  avowal  which 
must  determine  my  fate.  If,  after  reading  it, 
you  find  it  impossible  to  pardon,  do  not  finish 
this  letter,  but  reject  and  banish  me ;  yet  if, 
when  you  know  the  name  and  destiny  I  have 
renounced,  all  is  not  broken  between  us,  what 
follows  may  then  serve  as  my  excuse. 

"  Lord  Edgarmond  was  my  father.  I  was 
born  in  Italy :  his  first  wife  was  a  Roman ; 
and  Lucy,  whom  they  intended  for  your  bride, 


is  my  sister,  by  an  English  lady, — by  my 
father's  second  marriage. 

"  Now,  hear  me  !  I  lost  my  mother  ere  I 
was  ten  years  old,  and,  as  it  was  her  dying 
wish  that  my  education  should  be  finished  ere 
I  went  to  England,  I  was  confided  to  an  aunt 
at  Florence,  with  whom  I  lived  till  I  was 
fifteen.  My  tastes  and  talents  were  formed 
ere  her  death  induced  Lord  Edgarmond  to 
have  me  with  him.  He  lived  at  a  small  town 
in  Northumberland,  which  cannot,  I  suppose, 
give  any  idea  of  England  ;  yet  was  all  I  knew 


CORINNE ,  OR,  ITALY. 


105 


of  it  for  six  years.  My  mother,  from  my  in- 
fancy, impressed  on  me  the  misery  of  not  liv- 
ing in  Italy  ;  my  aunt  had  often  added,  tha.  this 
fear  of  quitting  her  country  had  broken  her 
heart.  My  good  aunt  herself  was  persuaded, 
oo,  that  a  Catholic  would  be  condemned  to 
perdition  for  settling  in  a  Protestant  country  ; 
and  though  I  was  not  infected  by  this  fear,  the 
thought  of  going  to  England  alarmed  me  much. 
I  set  forth  with  an  inexplicable  sense  of  sad- 
ness. The  woman  sent  for  me  did  not  under- 
stand a  word  of  Italian.  I  spoke  it  now  and 
then  to  console  my  poor  Theresina,  who  had 
consented  to  follow  me,  though  she  wept  in- 
cessantly at  leaving  her  country  ;  but  I  knew 
that  I  must  unlearn  the  habit  of  breathing  the 
sweet  sounds  so  welcome  even  to  foreigners, 
and,  for  me,  associated  with  all  the  recollec- 
tions of  my  childhood.  I  approached  the 
north,  unable  to  comprehend  the  cause  of  my 
own  changed  and  sombre  sensations.  It  was 
five  years  since  I  had  seen  my  father.  I 
hardly  recognized  him  when  I  reached  his 
house.  Methought  his  countenance  was  very 
grave ;  yet  he  received  me  with  tenderness, 
and  told  me  1  was  extremely  like  my  mother. 
My  half-sister,  then  three  years  of  age,  was 
brought  to  me  :  her  skin  was  fairer,  her  silken 
curls  more  golden  than  I  had  ever  seen  before  ; 
we  have  hardly  any  such  faces  in  Italy  ;  she 
astonished  and  interested  me  from  the  first ; 
that  same  day  I  cut  off  some  of  her  ringlets 
for  a  bracelet,  which  I  have  preserved  ever 
since.  At  last  my  step-mother  appeared,  and 
the  impression  made  on  me  by  her  fkst  look 
grew  and  deepened  during  the  years  I  passed 
witk  her.  Lady  Edgarmond  was  exclusively 
attached  to  her  native  country ;  and  my  father, 
whom  she  over-ruled,  sacrificed  a  residence  in 
London  or  Edinburgh  to  her  wishes.  She 
was  a  cold,  dignified,  silent  person,  whose  eyes 
could  turn  affectionately  on  her  child,  but  who 
usually  wore  so  positive  an  air,  that  it  appeared 
impossible  to  make  her  understand  a  new  idea, 
or  even  one  phrase  to  which  she  had  not  been 
accustomed.  She  met  me  politely,  but  I  soon 
perceived  that  my  whole  manner  amazed  her, 
and  that  she  proposed  to  change  it,  if  she 
could.  Not  a  word  was  said  during  dinner, 
though  some  neighbors  had  been  invited.  I 
was  so  tired  of  this  silence,  that,  in  the  midst 
of  our  meal,  I  strove  to  converse  a  little  with 
an  old  gentleman  who  sat  beside  me.  I  spoke 
English  tolerably,  as  my  father  had  taught  me 
in  childhood  ;  but  happening  to  cite  some 
Italian  poetry,  purely  delicate,  in  which  there 
was  some  mention  of  lore,  my  mother-in-law, 
who  knew  the  language  slightly,  stared  at  me, 
blushed,  and  signed  for  the  ladies,  earlier  than 
usual,  to  withdraw,  prepare  tea,  and  leave  the 
men  to  themselves  during  the  dessert.  I 


knew  nothing  of  this  custom,  which  would 
not  be  believed  in  Italy  where  society  cannot 
be  conceived  agreeable  without  women ! — For 
a  moment  I  thought  her  ladyship  so  displeased 
that  she  could  not  remain  in  the  same  room 
with  me  ;  but  I  was  re-assured  by  her  motion- 
ing me  to  follow,  and  never  reverting  to  my 
fault  during  the  three  hours  we  passed  in  the 
drawing-room,  waiting  for  the  gentlemen.  At 
supper,  however,  she  told  me,  gently  enough, 
that  it  was  not  usual  in  England  for  young 
ladies  to  talk  ;  above  all,  they  must  never  think 
of  quoting  poetry  in  which  the  name  of  love 
occurred.  '  Miss  Edgarmond,'  she  added, '  you 
must  endeavor  to  forget  all  that  belongs  to  Italy : 
it  is  to  be  wished  that  you  had  never  known 
such  a  country.'  I  passed  the  night  in  tears, 
my  heart  was  oppressed.  In  the  morning  I 
attempted  to  walk  :  there  was  so  tremendous 
a  fog  that  I  could  not  see  the  sun,  which,  at 
least,  would  have  reminded  me  of  my  own 
land  ;  but  I  met  my  father,  who  said  to  me, 
'  My  dear  child,  it  is  not  here  as  in  Italy ;  our 
women  have  no  occupations  save  their  domes- 
tic duties.  Your  talents  may  beguile  your 
solitude,  and  you  may  win  a  husband  who  will 
pride  in  them  ;  but  in  a  country  town  like  this, 
all  that  attracts  attention  excites  envy,  and 
you  will  never  marry  at  all  if  it  is  thought  that 
you  have  foreign  manners.  Here,  every  one 
must  submit  to  the  old  prejudices  of  an  obscure 
county.  I  passed  twelve  years  in  Italy  with 
your  mother  :  their  memory  is  very  dear  to 
me.  I  was  youag  then,  and  novelty  delight- 
ful. I  have  now  returned  to  my  original  situa- 
tion, and  am  quite  comfortable  ;  a  regular,  per- 
haps rather  a  monotonous  life,  makes  time  pass 
unperceived  ;  one  must  not  combat  the  habits 
of  a  place  in  which  one  is  established  ;  we 
should  be  the  sufferers  if  we  did ;  for,  in  a 
scene  like  this,  everything  is  known,  every- 
thing repeated ;  there  is  no  room  for  emula- 
tion, but  sufficient  for  jealousy  ;  anoV  it  is  bet- 
ter to  bear  a  little  ennui  than  to  be  beset  by 
wondering  faces  that  every  instant  demand 
reasons  for  what  you  do.' 

"  My  dear  Oswald,  you  can  form  no  idea  of 
my  anguish  while  my  father  spoke  thus.  ] 
remembered  him  all  grace  and  vivacity,  and  I 
saw  him  stooping  beneath  the  leaden  mantle 
which  Dante  invented  for  hell,  and  which  me- 
diocrity throws  over  all  who  submit  to  her  yoke. 
Enthusiasm  for  nature  and  the  arts  seemed 
vanishing  from  my  sight ;  and  my  soul,  like  a 
useless  flame,  consumed  myself,  having  no 
longer  any  food  from  without.  As  I  was  nat- 
urally mild,  my  stepmother  had  nothing  to 
complain  of  in  my  behavior  towards  her  ;  and 
for  my  father,  I  loved  him  tenderly.  A  con- 
versation with  him  was  my  only  remaining 
pleasure  ;  he  was  resigned,  but  he  kivew  that 


106 


CORINNE ;  OR,  ITALY. 


he  was  so  ;  while  the  generality  of  our  country 
gentlemen  drank,  hunted,  and  slept,  fancying 
such  life  the  wisest  and  best  in  the  world. 
Their  content  so  perplexed  me,  that  I  asked 
myself  if  my  own  way  of  thinking  was  not  a 
tolly,  and  if  this  solid  existence,  which  escaped 
grief,  in  avoiding  thought  and  sentiment,  was 
not  far  more  '•sriable  than  mine.  What  would 
such  a  con/iction  have  done  for  me  1  it  must 
have  taught  me  to  deplore  as  a  misfortune 
that  genius  which  in  Italy  was  regarded  as  a 
blessing  from  heaven. 

"  Towards  the  close  of  autumn  the  pleasures 
of  the  chase  frequently  kept  my  father  from 
home  till  -midnight.  During  h'™  absence  I  re- 
mained mostly  in  my  own  roon»,  zndeavoring 
to  improve  myself:  this  displeased  Lady  Ed- 
garmond.  '  What  good  will  it  do  V  she  said  : 
'  will  you  be  any  the  happier  for  it  1'  The 
words  struck  me  with  despair.  What,  then, 
is  happiness,  I  thought,  if  it  consist  not  in  the 
development  of  our  faculties  1  Might  we  not  as 
well  kill  ourselves  physically  as  morally  ?  If  I 
must  stifle  my  mind,  my  soul,  why  preserve 
the  miserable  remains  of  life  that  would  but 
agitate  me  in  vain  ?  But  I  was  careful  not  to 
speak  thus  before  my  mother-in-law.  I  had 
essayed  it  once  or  twice,  and  her  reply  was, 
that  women  were  made  to  manage  their  hus- 
bands' houses,  and  watch  over  the  health  of 
their  children :  all  other  accomplishments 
were  dangerous,  and  the  best  advice  she  could 
give  me  was  to  hide  those  I  possessed.  This 
discourse,  though  so  common-place,  was  un- 
answerable ;  for  enthusiasm  is  peculiarly  de- 
pendent on  encouragement,  and  withers  like  a 
flower,  beneath  a  dark  or  freezing  sky. 

"  There  is  nothing  easier  than  to  assume  a 
high  moral  air,  while  condemning  all  the  at- 
tributes of  an  elevated  spirit.  Duty,  the  no- 
blest destination  of  man,  may  be  distorted, 
like  all  other  ideas,  into  an  offensive  weapon 
by  which  narrow  minds  silence  their  superiors 
as  their  foes.  One  would  think,  if  believing 
them,  that  duty  enjoined  the  sacrifice  of  all 
the  qualities  that  confer  distinction  ;  that  tal- 
ent were  a  fault,  requiring  the  expiation  of 
our  leading  precisely  the  same  lives  with 
those  who  have  none  ;  but  does  duty  prescribe 
like  rules  to  all  characters  ?  Are  not  great 
thoughts  and  generous  feelings  debts  due  to 
the  world,  from  all  who  are  capable  of  paying 
them  ?  Ought  not  every  woman,  like  every 
max,  to  follow  the  bent  of  her  own  talents  1 
Must  we  imitate  the  instinct  of  the  bees, 
whose  every  succeeding  swarm  copies  the 
last,  without  improvement  or  variety  1  No, 
Oswald  :  pardon  the  pride  of  your  Corinne. 
I  believed  myself  intended  for  a  different  ca- 
reer. Yet  I  feel  myself  submissive  to  those 
I  love  as  the  females  then  around  me,  who 


had  neither  judgment  nor  wishes  of  their  own. 
If  it  pleased  you  to  pass  your  days  in  the 
heart  of  Scotland,  I  should  be  happy  to  live 
and  die  with  you  :  but  far  from  abjuring  im- 
agination, it  would  teach  me  the  better  tc  en- 
joy nature,  and  the  further  the  empire  of  my 
mind  extended,  the  more  glory  should  I  leel 
in  declaring  you  its  lord. 

"  Lady  Edgarmond  was  almost  as  importu- 
nate respecting  my  thoughts  ais  my  actions.- 
It  sufficed  not  that  I  led  the  same  life  as  her- 
self, it  must  be  from  the  same  motives  ;  for 
she  wished  all  the  faculties  she  did  not  share 
to  be  looked  on  as  diseases.  We  lived  pretty 
near  the  sea  ;  at  night  the  north  wind  whistled 
through  the  long  corridors  of  our  old  castle  ; 
by  day,  even  when  re-united,  it  was  won- 
drously  favorable  to  our  silence.  The  weather 
was  cold  and  damp  :  I  could  scarce  ever  leave 
the  house  with  pleasure.  Nature  now  treated 
me  with  hostility,  and  deepened  my  regrets  of 
her  sweetness  and  benevolence  in  Italy.  With 
the  winter  we  removed  into  the  town,  if  so  I 
may  call  a  place  without  public  buildings,  the- 
atre, music,  or  pictures. 

"  In  the  smallest  Italian  towns  we  have  spec- 
tacles, improvisatores,  zeal  for  the  fine  arts, 
and  a  glorious  sun  ;  we  feel  that  we  live  : — but 
I  almost  forgot  it  in  this  assembly  of  gossips, 
this  depository  of  disgusts,  at  once  monoto- 
nous and  varied.  Births,  deaths,  and  marria- 
ges, composed  the  history  of  our  society  ;  and 
these  three  events  here  differed  not  the  least 
from  what  they  are  elsewhere.  Figure  to 
yourself  what  it  must  have  been  for  ine  to  be  | 
seated  at  a  tea-table,  many  hours  each  day  ] 
after  dinner,  with  my  stepmother's  guests. 
These  were  the  seven  gravest  women  in  Nor- 
thumberland : — two  were  maidens  of  fifty, 
timid  as  fifteen.  One  lady  would  say,  '  My 
dear,  do  you  think  the  water  hot  enough  to 
pour  on.  the  teal'  'My  dear,'  replied  the 
other,  '  I  think  it  is  too  soon  ;  the  gentlemen 
are  not  ready  yet.'  '  Do  you  think  they  will 
sit  late  to-day,  my  dear  ?'  says  a  third.  '  I 
don't  know,'  answers  a  fourth  ;  '  I  believe  the 
election  takes  place  next  week,  so  perhaps 
they  are  staying  to  talk  over  it.'  '  No,'  re- 
joins a  fifth,  '  I  rather  think  that  they  are  oc- 
cupied by  the  fox-hunt  which  occurred  last 
week  :  there  will  be  another  on  Monday  ;  but 
for  all  that,  I  suppose  -they  will  come  soon.' 
'  Ah !  I  hardly  expect  it,'  sighs  the  sixth  ; 
and  all  again  is  silence.  The  convents  I  had 
seen  in  Italy  appeared  all  life  to  this  ;  and  I 
knew  not  what  would  become  of  me.  Every 
quarter  of  an  hour  some  voice  was  raised  to 
ask  an  insipid  question,  which  received  a  luke- 
warm reply  ;  and  ennui  fell  back  with  redou- 
bled weight  on  these  poor  women,  who  must 
have  thought  themselves  mcst  miserable,  had 


CORINNE;  OR,  ITALY. 


107 


not  habit  from  infancy  instructed  them  to  en- 
dure it. 

"  At  last  the  gentlemen  came  up  ;  yet  this 
long  hoped  for  moment  brought  no  great 
change.  They  continued  their  conversation 
round  the  fire  :  the  ladies  sat  in  the  centre  of 
the  room,  distributing  cups  of  tea  ;  and,  when 
the  hour  of  departure  arrived,  each  went 
home  with  her  husband,  ready  for  another  day, 
differing  from  the  last  merely  by  its  date  on 
the  almanac.  I  "cannot  yet  conceive  how  my 
talent  escaped  a  mortal  chill.  There  is  no 
denying  that  every  case  has  two  sides  ;  every 
subject  may  be  attacked  or  defended  ;  we  may 
plead  the  cause  of  life,  yet  much  is  to  be  said 
for  death,  or  a  state  thus  resembling  it.  Such 
was  my  situation.  My  voice  was  a  sound 
either  useless  or  troublesome  to  its  hearers. 
I  could  not,  as  in  London  or  Edinburgh,  enjoy 
the  society  of  learned  men,  who,  with  a  taste 
for  intellectual  conversation,  would  have  ap- 
preciated that  of  a  foreigner,  even  if  she  did 
not  quite  conform  with  the  strict  etiquettes  of 
their  country.  I  sometimes  passed  whole 
days  with  Lady  Edgarmond  and  her  friends, 
without  hearing  one  word  that  echoed  either 
thought  or  feeling,  or  beholding  one  express- 
ive gesture.  I  looked  on  the  faces  of  young 
girls,  fair,  fresh,  and  beautiful,  but  perfectly 
immovable.  Strange  union  of  contrasts  ! 
All  ages  partook  of  the  same  amusements  ; 
they  drank  tea,  and  they  played  whist :  the 
women  grew  old  in  this  routine  without  a 
change  of  occupation  or  of  place.  Time  was 
sure  not  to  miss  them  ;  he  well  knew  where 
they  were  to  be  found. 

"  An  automaton  might  have  filled  my  place, 
and  could  have  done  all  that  was  expected  of 
me.  In  England,  the  divers  interests  that  do 
honor  to  humanity  worthily  occupy  the  leisure 
of  men,  whatever  their  retirement ;  but  what 
remained  for  women  in  this  isolated  corner  of 
the  earth  T  Among  the  ladies  who  visited  us 
there  were  some  not  deficient  in  mind.  Some 
of  them  I  suspected  must,  by  reflection,  have 
matured  their  natural  abilities  ;  at  times  a 
look  or  murmured  accent,  told  of  thoughts 
that  strayed  from  the  beaten  track ;  but  the 
petty  opinions,  all  powerful  in  their  own  little 
sphere,  repressed  these  inclinations.  A  wo- 
man would  be  considered  insane,  or  of  doubt- 
ful virtue,  if  she  ventured  to  talk  with  free- 
dom ;  and,  what  was  worse  than  all  these 
inconveniences,  she  could  gain  not  one  advan- 
tage by  the  attempt.  At  first  I  endeavored  to 
rouse  this  sleeping  world.  I  proposed  poetic 
readings  and  music,  and  a  day  was  appointed 
for  this  purpose  ;  but  suddenly  one  woman 
remembered  that  she  had  been  three  weeks 
invited  to  sup  with  her  aunt ;  another  that  she 
was  in  mourning  for  an  old  cousin  she  had 


never  seen,  and  who  had .  been  dead  for 
months ;  a  third  that  she  had  some  domestic 
arrangements  to  make  at  home  ;  all  very  rea- 
sonable ;  yet  thus  for  ever  were  intellectual 
pleasures  rejected  ;  and  I  so  often  heard  them 
say  '  that  cannot  be  done,'  that,  amid  so  many 
negations,  not  to  live  would  have  been  to  me 
the  best  of  all.  After  some  debates  with  my- 
self I  gave  up  my  vain  schemes,  not  that  my 
father  forbade  them,  he  even  enjoined  his  wife 
to  cease  tormenting  me  on  my  studies  ;  but 
her  insinuations,  her  stolen  glances  while  I 
spoke,  a  thousand  trivial  hindrances,  like  the 
chains  the  Lilliputians  wove  round  Gulliver, 
rendered  it  impossible  for  me  to  follow  my 
own  will ;  so  I  ended  by  doing  as  I  saw  others 
do,  though  dying  of  impatience  and  disgust. 
By  the  time  I  had  passed  four  weary  years 
thus,  I  really  found,  to  my  severe  distress, 
that  my  mind  grew  dull,  and,  in  spite  of  my- 
self, was  filled  by  trifles.  Where  no  interest 
is  taken  in  science,  literature,  and 'liberal  pur- 
suits, mere  facts  and  insignificant  criticisms 
necessarily  become  the  themes  of  discourse  ; 
and  minds,  strangers  alike  to  activity  and 
meditation,  become  so  limited  as  to  render  all 
intercourse  with  them  at-  once  tasteless  and 
oppressive. 

"  There  was  no  enjoyment  near  me  save  in 
a  certain  methodical  regularity,  whose  desire 
was  that  of  reducing  all  things  to  its  own 
level ;  a  constant  grief  to  characters  called  by 
heaven  to  destinies  of  their  own.  The  ill-will 
1  innocently  excited,  joined  with  my  sense  of 
the  void  all  round  me,  seemed  to  check  even 
my  breath.  In  vain  we  tell  ourselves  '  such  a 
man  is  unworthy  to  judge  me,  such  a  woman 
is  incapable  of  comprehending  me  :'  the  human 
face  has  great  power  over  the  human  heart ; 
and  when  we  read  there  a  secret  disapproba- 
tion, it  haunts  us  in  defiance  of  our  reason. 
The  circle  which  surrounds  you  always  hides 
the  rest  of  the  world :  the  smallest  object  close 
before  your  eyes  intercepts  their  view  of  the 
sun.  So  is  it  with  the  set  among  whom  we 
dwell  :  nor  Europe,  nor  posterity,  can  render 
us  insensible  to  the  intrigues  of  our  next  door 
neighbor  ;  and  whoever  would  live  happily, 
and  cultivate  his  own  powers,  ought  to  be, 
above  all  things,  cautious  in  the  choice  of  im- 
mediate mental  atmosphere. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  My  only  amusement  was  the  education  of 
my  half-sister:  her  mother  did  not  wish  her 
to  learn  music,  but  permitted  me  to  teach  her 


108 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY 


drawing  and  Italian.  I  am  persuaded  that  she 
must  still  remember  both ;  for  I  owe  her  the 
justice  to  say  that  ak.e,  even  then,  evinced 
great  intelligence.  Oswald,  if  it  was  for  your 
happiness  I  toiled,  I  shall  bless  my  efforts, 
even  from  the  grave.  I  was  now  nearly  twen- 
ty :  my  father  wished  me  to  marry,  and  here 
the  sad  fatality  of  my  life  began.  Lord  Nel- 
vil  was  his  intimate  friend,  and  it  was  yourself 
of  whom  he  thought  as  my  husband.  Had  we 
then  met  and  loved,  our  fate  would  have  been 
cloudless.  I  had  heard  such  praises  of  you, 
that,  whether  from  presentiment  or  pride,  I 
was  extremely  flattered  with  the  hope  of  being 
your  wife.  You  were  too  young,  for  I  was 
eighteen  months  your  elder  ;  but  your  love  of 
study,  they  said,  outstripped  your  age  ;  and  I 
formed  so  sweet  an  idea  of  passing  my  days 
with  such  a  character  as  yours  was  described, 
that  I  forgot  all  my  prejudices  against  the  way 
of  life  usual  to  women  in  England.  I  knew, 
besides^  that  you  would  settle  in  Edinburgh  or 
London  ;  in  either  place  I  was  secure  of  finding 
congenial  friends.  I  said  then,  as  I  think  now, 
that  all  my  wretchedness  sprung  from  being 
tied  to  a  little  town  in  the  centre  of  a  northern 
county.  Great  cities  alone  can  suit  those  who 
deviate  from  hackneyed  rules,  if  they  design 
to  live  in  society  :  as  life  is  varied  there, 
novelties  are  welcome ;  but  where  persons  are 
content  with  a  monotonous  routine,  they  love 
not  to  be  disturbed  by  the  occasional  diversion, 
which  only  shows  them  the  tediousness  of 
their  every-day  life. 

"  I  am  pleased  to  tell  you,  Oswald,  though 
I  had  never  seen  you,  that  I  looked  forward 
with  real  anxiety  to  the  arrival  of  your  father, 
who  was  coming  to  pass  a  week  with  mine. 
The  sentiment  had  then  too  little  motive  to 
have  been  aught  less  than  a  foreboding  of  my 
future.  When  I  was  presented  to  Lord  Nel- 
vil  1  desired,  perhaps  but  too  ardently,  to 
please  him  ;  and  did  infinitely  more  than  was 
required  for  success  ;  displaying  all  my  talents, 
dancing,  singing,  and  extemporising  before 
him :  my  long  imprisoned  soul  felt  but  too 
blest  in  breaking  from  its  chain.  Seven  years 
of  experience  have  calmed  me.  I  am  more 
accustomed  to  myself.  I  know  how  to  wait. 
I  have,  perchance,  less  confidence  in  the  kind- 
ness of  others,  less  eagerness  for  their  ap- 
plause :  indeed,  it  is  possible  that  there  was 
then  something  strange  about  me  !  We  have 
so  much  fire  and  imprudence  in  early  youth, 
one  faces  life  with  such  vivacity  !  Mind,  how- 
ever distinguished,  cannot  supply  the  work  of 
time  ;  and  though  we  may  speak  of  the  world 
as  if  we  knew  it,  we  never  act  up  to  our  own 
views  ;  there  is  a  fever  in  our  ideas  that  will 
not  let  our  conduct  conform  with  our  reason- 
ings. 


"  I  believe,  though  not  with  certainty,  that 
I  appeared  to  Lord  Nelvil  somewhat  too  wild ; 
for  though  he  treated  me  very  amiably,  yet, 
when  he  left  my  father,  he  said  that,  after  due 
reflection,  he  thought  his  son  too  young  for 
the  marriage  in  question.  Oswald,  what  im- 
portance do  you  attach  to  this  confession  ?  I 
might  suppress  it,  but  I  will  not.  Is  it  possi- 
ble, however,  that  it  will  prove  my  condemna- 
tion I  I  am,  I  know,  tamed  now ;  and  could 
your  parent  have  witnessed  my  love  for  you 
without  emotion  ?  Oswald,  you  were  dear  to 
him, — we  should  have  been  heard.  My  step- 
mother now  formed  a  project  for  marrying  me 
to  the  son  of  her  eldest  brother,  Mr.  Maclin- 
son,  who  had  an  estate  in  our  neighborhood. 
He  was  a  man  of  thirty,  rich,  handsome, 
highly  born,  and  of  honorable  character  ;  but 
so  thoroughly  convinced  of  a  husband's  right 
to  govern,  and  a  wife's  duty  to  obey,  that  a 
doubt  on  this  subject  would  as  much  have 
shocked  him  as  a  question  of  his  own  integri- 
ty. The  rumors  of  my  eccentricity  did  not 
alarm  him.  His  house  was  so  ordered,  the 
same  things  were  every  day  performed  there 
so  punctually  to  the  minute,  that  any  change 
was  impossible.  The  two  old  aunts  who  di- 
rected his  establishment,  the  servants,  the 
very  horses,  could  not  to-morrow  have  acted 
differently  from  yesterday  ;  nay,  the  furniture, 
which  had  served  three  generations,  would 
have  started  of  its  own  accord  had  anything 
new  approached  it.  The  effects  of  my  arrival, 
therefore,  might  well  be  defined.  Habit  there 
reigned  so  securely,  that  any  little  liberties  I 
might  have  taken  would  have  had  a  transient 
effect.  Mr.  Maclinson  was  a  good  man,  in- 
capable of  giving  pain  ;  yet  had  I  spoken  to 
him  of  the  innumerable  annoyances  which  may 
torment  an  active  or  a  feeling  mind,  he  would 
have  merely  thought  that  I  had  the  vapors, 
and  recommended  me  to  mount  my  horse  and 
take  an  airing.  He  desired  to  marry  me, 
because  he  knew  nothing  about  the  wishes  of 
imaginative  beings,  and  admired  without  un- 
derstanding me  :  had  he  but  guessed  that  I 
was  a  woman  of  genius,  he  might  have  feared 
that  he  could  not  please  me  ;  but  no  such 
anxiety  ever  entered  his  head.  Judge  my 
repugnance  against  such  an  union.  I  decided- 
ly refused.  My  father  supported  me  :  his 
wife  from  this  moment  cherished  the  deepest 
resentment :  she  was  a  despot  at  heart,  though 
timidity  often  prevented  the  expression  of  her 
wil1 :  when  it  was  not  anticipated,  she  lost  her 
temper ;  but  if  resisted,  after  she  had  made 
the  effort  of  expressing  it,  she  was  the  more 
unforgiving,  for  having  been  thus  fruitlessly 
drawn  from  her  wonted  reserve.  The  whole 
town  was  loud  in  my  blame.  '  So  proper  a 
match,  such  a  fortune,  so  estimable  a  man,  «f 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


109 


such  a  good  family !'  was  the  general  cry.  I 
strove  to  show  them  why  this  very  proper 
match  could  not  suit  me,  and  sometimes  made 
myself  intelligible  while  speaking  ;  but  when 
I  was  gone,  my  words  left  no  impression  ; 
former  ideas  returned  ;  and  these  old  acquaint- 
ances were  the  more  welcome  from  having 
been  a  moment  banished.  One  woman,  much 
more  intellectual  than  the  rest,  though  she 
bowed  to  all  their  external  forms,  took  me 
aside,  when  I  had  spoken  with  more  than 
usual  vivacity,  and  said  a  few  words  to  me 
which  I  can  never  forget : — '  Y«*u  give  your- 
self a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  no  purpose,  my 
dear  :  you  cannot  change  the  nature  of  things  : 
a  little  northern  town,  unconnected  with  the 
world,  uncivilized  by  arts  or  letters,  must  re- 
main what  it  is.  If  you  are  doomed  to  live 
here,  submit  cheerfully ;  but  leave  it  if  you 
can  :  these  are  your  only  alternatives.'  This 
was  evidently  so  rational,  that  I  felt  a  greater 
respect  for  her  than  for  myself :  with  tastes 
like  enough  to  my  own,  she  knew  how  to 
resign  herself  beneath  the  lot  which  I  found 
insupportable  :  with  a  love  of  poetry,  she  could 
judge  better  than  I  the  stubbornness  of  man. 
I  sought  to  know  more  of  her,  but  in  vain : 
her  thoughts  wandered  beyond  her  home  ;  but 
her  life  was  devoted  to  it.  I  even  believe  that 
she  dreaded  lest  her  intercourse  with  me 
should  revive  her  natural  superiority ;  for 
what  could  she  have  done  with  it  there  1 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  I  MIGHT  have  passed  my  life  in  this  de- 
plorable situation  had  I  not  lost  my  father.  A 
sudden  accident  deprived  me  of  my  protector, 
my  friend, — the  only  being  who  had  under- 
stood me  in  that  peopled  desert.  My  despair 
was  uncontrollable.  I  found  myself  without 
one  support.  I  had  no  relation  save  my  step- 
mother, with  whom  I  was  no  more  intimate 
now  than  on  the  day  I  met  her  first.  She  soon 
renewed  the  suit  of  Mr.  Maclinson  :  and  though 
she  had  no  authority  to  command  my  marrying 
him,  received  no  one  else  at  her  house,  and 
plainly  told  me  that  she  should  countenance 
no  other  match.  Not  that  she  loved  her  kins- 
man ;  but  she  thought  me  presumptuous  in 
refusing  him,  and  made  his  cause  her  own, 
rather  for  the  defence  of  mediocrity  than  from 
family  pride.  Every  day  my  state  grew  more 
odious.  I  felt  myself  attacked  by  that  home- 
sick yearning  which  renders  exile  more  terri- 


ble than  death.  The  imagination  of  the  exile 
is  displeased  by  each  surrounding  object, — the 
country,  climate,  language  and  customs  :  life 
as  a  whole,  life  in  detail,  each  moment,  each 
circumstance  has  its  sting  ;  for  one's  own  land 
inspires  a  thousand  pleasures  that  we  do  not 
appreciate  till  they  are  lost, 

"  la  favella,  icostumi, 

L'aria,  i  tronchi,  il  terren,  le  mura,  il  sassi." 


says  Metastasio.  It  is,  indeed,  a  grief  no 
more  to  look  upon  the  scenes  of  childhood  : 
the  charm  of  their  memory  renews  our  youth, 
yet  sweetens  the  thought  of  death.  The  tomb 
and  cradle  there  repose  in  the  same  shade ; 
while  the  years  spent  beneath  stranger  skies 
seem  like  branches  without  roots.  The  gene- 
ration which  preceded  yours  remembers  not 
your  birth ;  it  is  not  the  generation  of  your 
sires  :  a  host  of  mutual  interests  exist  between 
you  and  your  countrymen,  which  cannot  be 
understood  by  foreigners,  to  whom  you  must 
explain  everything,  instead  of  finding  the  in- 
itiated ease  that  bids  your  thoughts  flow  forth 
secure  the  moment  you  meet  a  compatriot.  I 
could  not  remember  without  emotion,  such 
amiable  expressions  as  '  Cara,  Carissima  :'  I 
repeated  them  as  I  walked  alone,  in  imitation 
of  the  kindly  welcomes  so  contrasted  with  the 
greetings  I  now  received. 

"  Every  day  I  wandered  into  the  fields.  Of 
an  evening,  in  Italy,  I  had  been  wont  to  hear 
rich  music  ;  but  now  the  cawing  of  rooks  alone 
resounded  beneath  the  clouds.  The  fruits 
could  scarcely  ripen.  I  saw  no  vines  :  the 
languid  flowers  succeeded  each  other  slowly  ; 
black  pines  covered  the  hills  :  an  antique  edi- 
fice, or  even  one  fine  picture,  would  have  been 
a  relief,  for  which  I  should  have  sought  thirty 
miles  round  in  vain.*  All  was  dull  and  sullen  : 
the  houses  and  their  inhabitants  served  but  to 
rob  solitude  of  its  poetic  horrors.  There  was 
enough  of  commerce  and  of  agriculture  near 
for  them  to  say,  '  You  ought  to  be  content,  you 
want  for  nothing.'  Stupid,  superficial  judg- 
ment !  The  hearth  of  happiness  or  suffering 
is  in  our  own  breast's  secret  sanctuary. 

"  At  twenty-one  I  had  a  right  to  my  mo- 
ther's fortune,  and  whatever  my  father  had 
left  me.  Then  did  1  first  dream  of  returning 
to  Italy,  and  devoting  my  life  to  the  arts.  This 

n'ect  so  inebriated  me  with  joy,  that,  at  first, 
suld  anticipate  no  objections  ;  yet  as  sny 
feverish  hope  subsided,  I  feared  to  take  an 
irreparable  resolve,  and  thought  on  what  my 


*  Corinne  should  have  rather  lamented  that  she  wag  not 
permitted  to  explore  the  county  which  contains  AInwiek, 
Hexham,  Tynemouth,  Holy  Isle,  and  so  many  other  wjenw 
dear  to  the  lovers  of  antiquity,  the  fin  a  arts,  history,  ard 
nature,— TR. 


110 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


acquaintance  might  say,  to  a  plan  which,  trom 
appearing  perfectly  easy,  now  seemed  utterly 
impracticable  ;  yet  the  image  of  a  life  in  the 
midst  of  antiquities  and  arts  was  present 
before  my  mind's  eye  with  so  many  charms, 

j  that  I  felt  a  fresh  disgust  at  my  tiresome  ex- 

|  istence. 

"  My  talent,  which  I  had  feared  to  lose,  had 
increased  by  my  constant  study  of  English 
literature.  The  depth  of  thought  and  feeling 
which  characterizes  your  poets  had  strength- 
ened my  mind  without  impairing  my  fancy.  I 
therefore  possessed  the  advantages  of  a  dou- 
ble education  and  twofold  nationalities.  I  re- 
membered the  approbation  paid  by  a  few  good 
critics  in  Florence  to  my  first  poetical  essays, 
and  prided  in  the  added  success  I  might  ob- 
tain ;  in  sooth,  I  had  great  hopes  of  myself. 
And  is  not  such  the  first,  the  noblest  illusion 
of  youth  1 

"  Methought  that  I  should  be  mistress  of 
the  universe,  the  moment  I  escaped  the  wither- 
ing breath  of  vulgar  malice  ;  but  when  I  thought 
of  flying  in  secret,  I  felt  awed  by  that  opinion 
which  swayed  me  much  more  in  England  thon 
in  Italy  ;  for  though  I  could  not  like  the  town 
where  I  resided,  I  respected,  as  a  whole,  the 
country  of  which  it  was  a  part.  If  my  mo- 
ther-in-law had  deigned  to  take  me  to  London 
or  Edinburgh,  if  she  had  thought  of  marrying 
me  to  a  man  of  mind,  I  should  never  have  re- 
nounced my  name,  even  for  the  sake  of  re- 
turning to  my  country.  In  fact,  severe  as  she 
was,  I  never  could  have  found  the  strength  to 
alter  my  destiny,  but  for  a  multitude  of  cir- 
cumstances which  conspired  to  terminate  my 
uncertainty. 

"  Theresina  is  a  Tuscan,  and,  though  un- 
educated, she  converses  in  those  noble  and 
Melodious  phrases  that  lend  such  grace  to  the 
discourse  of  our  people.  She  was  the  only 
person  with  whom  I  spoke  my  own  language  ; 
and  this  tie  attached  me  to  her.  I  often  found 
her  sad,  and  dared  not  ask  why,  not  doubting 
that  she,  like  myself,  regretted  our  country.  I 
knew  that  I  should  have  been  unable  to  restrain 
my  own  feelings,,  if  excited  by  those  of  an- 
other. There  are  griefs  that  are  ameliorated 
by  communication  ;  but  imaginary  ills  aug- 

j  ment  if  confided,  above  all,  to  a  fellow-suffer- 
er. A  wo  so  sanctioned  we  no  longer  strive 
to  combat.  My  poor  Theresina  suddenly  be- 
came seriously  ill :  and  hearing  her  groan 
night  and  day,  I  determined  to  inquire  the 
cause.  Alas,  she  described  exactly  what  I 
had  felt  myself.  She  had  not  reflected  on  the 
source  of  her  pangs,  and  attached  more  im- 
portance to  local  circumstances  and  particular 

j  persons ;  but  the  sadness  of  the  country,  the 
jj  insipidity  i.  the  town,  the  coldness  of  its  na- 

I  lives,  the  constraint  of  their  habits, — she  felt 


as  I  did,  and  cried  incessantly,  '  Oh,  my  na- 
tive land  !  shall  I  never  see  you  more  V  yet 
added,  that  she  would  not  leave  me,  in  heart- 
breaking tones,  unable  to  reconcile  her  love 
for  me  with  her  attachment  to  our  fair  skiea 
and  mother-tongue. 

"  Nothing  more  affected  my  spirits  than  this 
reflex  of  my  own  feelings  in  a  common  mind, 
but  one  that  had  preserved  the  Italian  taste 
and  character  in  all  its  natural  vivacity.  I 
promised  her  that  she  should  see  her  home 
again.  '  With  you  V  she  asked.  I  was  silent: 
then  she  tore  her  hair,  again  declaring  that 
she  could  never  leave  me,  though  looking 
ready  to  expire  before  my  eyes  as  she  said  so. 
At  last  a  promise  that  I  would  return  with  her 
escaped  me  ;  and  though  spoken  but  to  soothe 
her,  the  joyous  faith  she  gave  it  rendered  it 
solemnly  binding.  From  that  day  she  culti- 
vated the  intimacy  of  some  traders  in  the  town, 
and  punctually  informed  me  when  any  vessel 
sailed  from  the  neighboring  port  for  Genoa  or 
Leghorn.  I  heard  her,  but  said  nothing :  she 
imitated  my  silence  ;  but  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  My  health  suffered  daily  from  the 
climate  and  anxiety.  My  mind  requires  gaiety. 
I  have  often  told  you  that  grief  would  kill  me. 
I  struggle  against  it  too  much  :  to  live  beneath 
sorrow  one  must  yield  to  it. 

"  I  frequently  returned  to  the  idea  which 


had  so  occupied  me  since  my  father's  death  ; 
but  I  loved  Lucy  dearly  ;  she  was  now  nine 
years  old  :  for  six  had  I  watched  over  her  like 


a  second  mother.  I  thought,  too,  that,  if  I 
departed  privately,  I  should  injure  my  own 
reputation,  and  that  the  name  of  my  sister 
might  thus  be  sullied.  This  apprehension,  for 
the  time,  banished  all  my  schemes.  One 
evening,  however,  when  I  was  more  than  usu- 
ally depressed,  I  found  myself  alone  with  Lady 
Edgarmond  ;  and,  after  an  hour's  silence,  took 
so  sudden  a  distaste  towards  her  imperturbable 
frigidity,  that  I  began  the  conversation,  by  la- 
menting the  life  I  led,  rather  to  force  her  to 
speak,  than  to  achieve  any  other  result ;  but 
as  I  grew  animated,  I  represented  the  possi- 
bility of  my  leaving  England  for  ever.  My 
mother-in-law  was  not  at  all  alarmed  ;  but 
with  a  dry  indifference,  which  I  shall  never 
forget,  replied,  '  You  are  of  age,  Miss  Edgar- 
mond ;  your  fortune  is  your  own  ;  you  are  the 
mistress  of  your  conduct :  but  if  you  take  any 
step  which  would  dishonor  you  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world,  you  owe  it  to  your  family  to  change 
your  name,  and  be  reported  dead.' 

"  This  heartless  scorn  inspired  me  with 
such  indignation,  that  for  a  while  a  desire  for 
vengeance,  foreign  to  my  nature,  seized  on 
my  soul.  That  impulse  left  me  ;  but  the  con- 
viction that  no  one  was  interested  in  my  wel- 
fare broke  every  link  which,  till  then,  had 


CORINNE  ;   OR,  ITALY. 


Ill 


boqnd  me  to  the  house  where  I  had  seen  my 
father.  His  wife  certainly  had  never  pleased 
me,  save  by  her  tenderness  for  Lucy.  I  be- 
lieved that  I  must  have  conciliated  her  by  the 
pains  I  had  bestowed  on  her  child  ;  which, 
perhaps,  rather  excited  her  jealousy  ;  for  the 
more  sacrifices  she  imposed  on  her  other  in- 
clinations, the  more  passionately  she  indulged 
the  sole  affection  she  permitted  herself.  All 
that  is  quick  and  ardent  in  .he  human  breast, 
mastered  by  her  reason  in  her  other  connec- 
tions, spoke  from  her  countenance  when  any- 
thing concerned  her  daughter. 

"  At  the  height  of  my  resentment,  There- 
sina  came  to  me,  in  extreme  emotion,  with 
tidings  that  a  ship  had  arrived  from  Leghorn, 
on  board  which  were  some  traders  whom  she 
knew  :  '  the  best  people  in  the  world,'  she 
added,  weeping  ;  '  for  they  are  all  Italians, 
can  speak  nothing  but  Italian  :  in  a  week  they 
sail  again  for  Italy  ;  and  if  madame  is  decid- 
ed  '  '  Return  with  them,  my  good  The- 
resina !'  said  I.  '  No,  madame  ;  I  would  ra- 
ther die  here.'  She  left  the  room,  and  I 
mused  over  my  duty  to  my  step-mother.  It 
was  plain  that  she  did  not  wish  to  have  me 
with  her  ;  my  influence  over  Lucy  displeased 
her  :  she  feared  that  the  name  I  had  gained 
there,  as  an  extraordinary  person,  would,  one 
day,  interfere  with  the  establishment  of  my 
sister  :  she  had  told  me  the  secret  of  her 
heart,  in  desiring  me  to  pass  for  dead  ;  and 
this  bitter  advice,  which  had,  at  first,  so 
shocked  me,  now  appeared  reasonable  enough. 
'  Yes,  doubtless  1  may  pass  for  dead,  where 
my  existence  is  but  a  disturbed  sleep,'  said  I. 
4  With  nature,  with  the  sun,  the  arts,  I  shall 
awaken,  and  the  poor  letters  which  compose 
my  name,  graven  on  an  idle  tomb,  will  fill  my 
station  here  as  well  as  I.'  These  mental 
leaps  towards  liberty  gave  me  not  yet  sufficient 
power  for  a  decided  aim.  There  are  moments 
when  we  trust  the  force  of  our  own  wishes  ; 
others  in  which  the  habitual  order  of  things 
assumes  a  right  to  over-rule  all  the  senti- 
ments of  the  soul.  I  was  in  a  state  of  inde- 
cision which  might  have  lasted  for  ever,  as 
nothing  obliged  me  to  take  an  active  part ; 
but  on  the  Sunday  following  my  conversation 
with  Lady  Edgarmond,  I  heard,  towards  even- 
ing, beneath  my  window,  some  Italians  sing- 
ing :  they  belonged  to  the  ship  from  Leghorn. 
Theresina  had  brought  them  to  give  me  this 
agreeable  surprise.  I  cannot  express  what  I 
felt :  a  torrent  of  tears  deluged  my  cheeks. 
All  my  recollections  were  revived  :  nothing 
recalls  the  past  like  music  :  it  does  more  than 
depict,  it  conjures  it  back,  like  some  beloved 
shade,  veiled  in  mysterious  melancholy.  The 
musicians  sang  the  delicious  verses  composed 
bj  Monti  in  his  exile  : — 


'  Bella  Italia  !  amate  sponde ! 

Pur  vi  torno,  a  riveder, 
Trema  in  petto,  e  si  confonde, 

L'alma  oppressa  dal  placer !' 

Beauteous  Italia  !  beloved  ever  ! 
Shall  I  behold  thy  shore  again  t 
Trembling— bewildered— my  bonds  I  sever— 
Pleasure  oppresses  iny  heart  and  brain.' 

In  a  kind-of  delirium  I  felt  for  Italy  all  that 
love  can  make  one  feel — desire,  enthusiasm, 
regret.  I  was  no  longer  mistress  of  myself; 
my  whole  soul  was  drawn  towards  my  coun- 
try :  I  yearned  to  see  it,  hear  it,  taste  its 
breath  ;  each  throb  of  my  heart  was  a  call  to 
my  own  smiling  land.  Were  life  offered  to 
the  dead,  they  would  not  dash  aside  the  stone 
that  kept  them  in  the  tomb  with  more  impa- 
tience, than  I  felt  to  rush  from  all  the  gloom 
around  me,  and  once  more  take  possession  of 
my  fancy,  my  genius,  and  of  nature.  Yet,  at 
that  moment,  my  sensations  were  too  confused 
for  me  to  frame  one  settled  idea.  My  step- 
mother entered  my  room,  and  begged  that  I 
would  order  them  to  cease  singing,  as  it  was 
scandalous  on  the  Sabbath.  I  insisted  that 
they  were  to  embark  on  the  morrow,  and  that 
it  was  six  years  since  I  had  enjoyed  such  a 
pleasure.  She  would  not  hear  me  ;  but  said 
that  it  behoved  us,  above  all  things,  to  respect 
the  customs  of  the  place  in  which  we  lived  ; 
then,  from  the  window,  bade  her  servants 
send  my  poor  countrymen  away.  They  de- 
parted, singing  me,  as  they  went,  an  adieu 
that  pierced  me  to  the  heart. 

"  The  measure  of  my  temptation  was  full. 
Theresina,  at  all  hazards,  had,  unknown  to 
me,  made  every  preparation  for  my  flight. 
Lucy  had  been  away  a  week  with  a  relative 
of  her  mother.  The  ashes  of  my  father  did 
not  repose  in  the  country-house  we  inhabited  : 
he  had  ordered  his  tomb  to  be  erected  on  his 
Scotch  estate.  Enough  :  I  set  forth  without 
warning  my  stepmother,  but  left  a  letter,  ap- 
prising her  of  my  plans.  I  started  in  one  of 
those  moments,  at  which  we  give  ourselves 
up  to  destiny,  when  anything  appears  prefer- 
able to  servitude  and  insipidity  ;  when  vouth 
inconsiderately  trusts  the,  future,  and  sees  it, 
in  the  heavens,  like  a  bright  star  that  ortstises 
a  happy  lot. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  MORE  anxious  thoughts  attaciea  •»  t  I 

lost  sight  of  the  English  coast ;  but  as  *d 

not  left  there  any  strong  attachment  as 


112 


;    OR,  ITALY. 


soon  consoled,  on  arriving  at  Leghorn,  and 
contemplating  again  the  charms  of  Italy.  I 
told  no  one  my  true  name,  and  took  merely 
that  of  Corinne,  which  the  history  of  a  Gre- 
cian poetess,  a  friend  of  Pindar,  had  endeared 
to  me.  (29)  My  person  was  so  changed  that 
I  was  secure  against  recognition.  I  had  lived 
so  retired  in  Florence,  that  I  had  a  right  to 
anticipate  my  identity's  remaining  unknown 
in  Rome.  Lady  Edgarmond  wrote  me  word 
of  her  having  spread  the  report  that  the  phy- 
sicians had  prescribed  a  voyage  to  the  south 
for  my  health,  and  that  I  had  died  on  my 
pas&age.  Her  letter  contained  no  comments. 
She  remitted,  with  great  exactness,  my  whole 
fortune,  which  was  considerable  ;  but  wrote 
to  me  no  more.  Five  years  then  elapsed  ere 
I  beheld  you  ;  during  which  I  tasted  much 
happiness.  My  fame  increased  :  the  fine  arts 
and  literature  afforded  me  even  more  delight 
in  solitude  than  in  my  celebrity.  I  knew  not, 
till  I  met  you,  the  full  power  of  sentiment : 
my  imagination  sometimes  colored  and  dis- 
colored my  illusions  without  giving  me  great 
uneasiness.  I  had  not  yet  been  seized  by 
any  affection  capable  of  overruling  me.  Ad- 
miration, respect  and  love,  had  not  enchained 
all  the  faculties  of  my  soul :  I  conceived 
more  charms  than  I  ever  found,  and  remained 
superior  to  my  own  impressions. 

"  Do  not  insist  on  my  describing  to  you 
how  two  men,  whose  passion  for  me  is  but  too 
generally  known,  successively  occupied  my 
life,  before  I  knew  you.  I  outrage  my  own 
conviction  in  n*8w  reminding  myself  that  any 
one,  save  you,  could  ever  have  interested  me  : 
on  this  subject  I  feel  equal  grief  and  repent- 
ance. I  shall  only  tell  you  what  you  have 
already  heard  from  my  friends.  My  free  life 
so  much  pleased  me,  that,  after  long  irresolu- 
tions and  painful  scenes,  I  twice  broke  the 
ties  which  the  necessity  of  loving  had  made 
me  contract,  and  could  not  resolve  to  render 
them  irrevocable.  A  German  noble  would 
have  married  and  taken  me  to  his  own  coun- 
try. An  Italian  prince  offered  me  a  most 
brilliant  establishment  in  Rome.  The  first 
pleased  and  inspired  me  with  the  highest  es- 
teem ;  but,  in  time,  I  perceived  that  he  had 
few,  mental  resources.  When  we  were  alone 
together,  it  cost  me  great  trouble  to  sustain  a 
conversation,  and  concfeal  from  him  his  own 
deficiencies.  I  dared  not  display  myself  at 
my  best  for  fear  of  embarrassing  him.  I  fore- 
saw that  his  regard  for  me  must  necessarily 
decrease  when  I  should  cease  to  humor  his 
defects  ;  and  it  is  difficult,  in  such  a  case,  to 
keep  up  one's  enthusiasm  :  a  woman's  feel- 
j  uigs  for  a  man  any  way  inferior  to  herself  are 
il  other  pity  than  love  ;  and  the  calculations, 
ij  ae  reflections  required  by  such  a  state,  wither 


the  celestial  nature  of  an  involuntary  sen 
timent.  The  Italian  prince  was  all  grace  and 
fertility  of  mind  :  he  participated  in  my  tastes, 
and  loved  my  way  of  life  ;  but,  on  an  impor- 
tant occasion,  I  remarked  that  he  wanted  en- 
ergy, and  that,  in  any  difficulties,  I  should 
have  to  sustain  and  fortify  him.  There  was 
an  end  of  love — for  women  need  support ;  and 
nothing  chills  them  more  than  the  necessity 
of  affording  it.  Thus  was  I  twice  undeceived, 
not  by  faults  or  misfortunes,  but  by  the  spirit 
of  observation,  which  detected  what  imagina- 
tion had  concealed. 

"  I  believed  myself  destined  never  to  love 
with  the  full  power  of  my  soul :  sometimes 
this  idea  pained  me  ;  but  more  frequently  I 
rejoiced  in  my  own  freedom — I  feared  that 
capacity  of  suffering,  that  impassioned  nature 
which  threatens  my  happiness  and  my  life.  I 
always  re-assured  myself  in  thinking  that  my 
judgment  was  not  easily  captivated,  and  that 
no  man  could  answer  my  ideal  of  masculine 
mind  and  character.  I  hoped  ever  to  escape 
the  absolute  power  of  love,  by  keeping  in  view 
all  the  defects  of  those  who  pleased  me.  I 
then  knew  not  that  there  are  faults  which  in- 
crease passion  by  the  inquietude  they  cause. 
Oswald  !  the  melancholy  indecision  which 
disencourages  you — the  severity  of,  your 
opinions — troubles  my  repose,  without  de- 
creasing my  affection. 

"  And  now  you  know  my  history — my 
flight  from  England — my  change  of  name — 
my  heart's  inconstancy  : — I  have  concealed 
nothing.  Doubtless  you  think  that  fancy  hath 
oft  misled  me  ;  but,  if  society  hound  us  not  by 
chains  from  which  men  are  free,  what  were 
there  in  my  life  which  should  prevent  your 
loving  me  1  Have  I  ever  deceived  1  have  I 
ever  wronged  any  one  1  has  my  mind  been 
seared  by  vulgar  interests  1  Sincerity,  a  good 
heart,  and  self-respect — does  God  ask  more 
from  an  orphan  alone  in  the  world  1 — Happy 
the  women  who,  in  their  early  youth,  meet 
those  they  ought  to  love  for  ever  ;  but  do  I 
the  less  deserve  you  for  having  known  you 
too  late  ] 

"  Yet,  I  assure  you,  my  Lord,  and  you  may 
trust  my  frankness,  could  I  but  pass  my  life 
near  you,  methinks,  in  spite  the  loss  of  the 
greatest  happiness  and  glory  I  can  imagine,  I 
would  not  be  your  wife.  Perhaps  such  mar- 
riage were  to  you  a  sacrifice :  you  may  one 
day  regret  the  fair  Lucy,  my  sister,  to  whom 
your  father  destined  you.  She  is  twelve 
years  my  younger ;  her  name  is  stainless  as 
the  first  flower  *>f  spring  :  we  should  be 
obliged,  in  England,  to  revive  mine,  which  is 
now  as  that  of  the  dead.  Lucy,  I  know,  has 
a  pure  and  gentle  spirit :  if  I  may  judge  from 
her  childhood,  she  may  become  capable  of 


COR1NNE ,   OR,  ITALY. 


113 


understanding — loving  you.  Oswald,  you  are 
free.  When  you  desire  it,  your  ring  shall  be 
restored  to  you. 

"  Perhaps  you  wish  to  know,  ere  you  decide, 
what  I  shall  suffer  if  you  leave  me.  I  know 
not  :  sometimes  impetuous  impulses  arise 
within  me,  and  over-rule  my  reason  :  should 
I  be  to  blame,  then,  if  they  rendered  life  in- 
supportable !  It  is  equally  true  that  I  have  a 
great  faculty  of  happiness  ;  it  interests  me  in 
everything  :  I  converse  with  pleasure,  and 
revel  in  the  minds  of  others — in  the  friend- 
ship they  show  me — in  all  the  wonders  of  art 
and  nature,  which  affection  hath  not  stricken 
dead.  But  would  it  be  in  my  power  to  live 
when  I  no  longer  saw  you  ?  It  is  for  you  to 
judge,  Oswald :  you  know  me  better  than  I 
know  myself.  I  am  not  responsible  for  what 
I  may  experience  :  it  is  he  who  plants  the 
dagger  should  guess  whether  the  wound  is 
mortal ;  but  if  it  were  so  I  should  forgive  | 
you. 


"  My  nappiness  entirely  depends  on  the 
affection  you  have  shown  me  for  the  last  six 
months.  I  defy  all  your  delicacy  to  blind  me, 
were  it  in  the  least  degree  impaired.  Banish 
from  your  mind,  upon  that  point,  all  idea  of 
duty.  In  love  I  recognize  no  promises,  no 
security.  God  alone  can  raise  the  flower  < 
which  storms  have  blighted.  A  tone,  a  look, 
will  be  enough  to  tell  me  that  your  heart  is 
not  the  same  ;  and  I  shall  detest  all  you  may 
offer  me  instead  of  love — your  love,  that  hea- 
venly ray,  my  only  glory !  Be  free,  then, 
Nelvil  !  now — ever — even  if  my  husband  ; 
for,  did  you  cease  to  love,  my  death  would 
free  you  from  bonds  that  else  would  be  indis- 
soluble. 

"  When  you  have  read  this,  I  wrould  see 
you :  my  impatience  will  bring  me  to  your 
side,  and  I  shall  read  my  fate  at  a  glance ;  for 
grief  is  a  rapid  poison, — and  the  heart,  though 
weak,  never  mistakes  the  signal  of  irrevoca- 
ble destiny.  Adieu." 


BOOK      XV 

THE     AC      EU     TO     ROME,    AND     JOURNEY     TO     VENICE. 

CHAPTER  I.  |  him.      She  entered  his  room ;    he  was  not 

there  :  his  absence,  at  such  a  crisis,  fearfully 

IT  was  with  deep  emotion  that  Oswald  read    alarmed  her.      She  saw  her  papers  on  the 

table,  and  doubted  not  that,  after  reading  them, 
he  had  left  her  for  ever.      Each  moment's 


the  narrative,  of  Corinne  :  many  and  varied 
were  the  confused  thoughts  that  agitated  him. 
Sometimes  he  felt  hurt  by  the  picture  she 
drew  of  an  English  county,  and  despairingly 
exclaimed,  "  Such  a  woman  would  never  be 
happy  in  domestic  life  !"  Then  he  pitied  her 
for  what  she  had  suffered  there,  and  could  not 
but  admire  the  simple  frankness  of  her  recital. 
He  was  jealous  of  the  affections  she  had  felt 
ere  she  met  him  ;  and  the  more  he  sought  to 
hide  this  from  himself  the  more  it  tortured 
him ;  but,  above  all,  was  he  afflicted  by  his 


father's  part  in  her  histor 


H: 


s  anguish  was 


attempt  at  patience  added  to  her  distress  :  she 
walked  the  chamber  hastily,  then  stopped,  in 
fear  of  losing  the  least  sound  that  might  an- 
nounce his  return  ;  at  last,  unable  to  control 
her  anxiety,  she  descended  to  inquire  if  any 
one  had  seen  Lord  Nelvil  go  out,  and  which 
way  he  went.  The  master  of  the  inn  replied, 
"  Towards  Portici ;"  adding,  "  that  his  Lord- 
ship surely  would  not  walk  far  at  such  a  dan- 
gerous period  of  the  day."  This  terror, 
blending  with  so  many  others,  deterrr;'(ned 


ustory. 

such,  that,  not  knowing  what  he  did,  he  rushed  Corinne  to  follow  him,  though  her  hea/l  was 
forth,  beneath  the  noonday  sun,  when  the  undefended  from  the  sun.  The  large  white 
streets  of  Naples  were  deserted,  and  their  I  pavements  of  Naples,  formed  of  lava,  redou- 
inhabitants  all  secluded  in  the  shade.  He  '  bling  the  light  and  heat,  scorched  and  dazzled 
hurried  at  random  towards  Portici;  the  beams  her  as  she  walked. 

which  fell  on  his  brow  at  once  excited  and  be-        She  did  not  intend  going  to  Portici,  yet  ad-  i 
wildered  his  ideas.  vanced  towards  it  with  increasing  speed,  meet-  I 

Corinne.  meanwhile,  having  waited  for  some  j  ing  no  one  ;  for  even  the  animals  now  shrunk 
hours,  could  no  longer  tesist  her  desire  to  see    from  the  ardors  of  the  clime.     Clouds  of  dust 


114 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


filled  the  air,  with  the  slightest 'breeze,  cover- 
ing the  fields,  and  concealing  all  appearance 
of  verdant  life.  Every  instant,  Corinne  felt 
about  to  fall ;  not  even  a  tree  was  near  to 
support  her.  Reason  reeled  in  this  burning 
desert :  a  few  steps  more,  and  she  might  reach 
the  royal  palace,  beneath  whose  .porch  she 
would  find  both  shade  and  water;  but  her 
strength  failed — she  could  no  longer  see  her 
way — her  head  swam — a  thousand  flames, 
more  vivid  even  than  the  blaze  of  day,  danced 
before  his  eyes — an  unrefreshing  darkness 
suddenly  succeeded  them — a  cruel  thirst  con- 
sumed her.  One  of  the  Lazzaroni,  the  only 
human  creature  expected  to  brave  these  fervid 
horrors,  now  came  up  ;  she  prayed  him  to 
bring  her  a  little  water  ;  but  the  man,  behold- 
ing a  woman  so  beautiful  and  so  elegantly 
dressed,  alone,  on  foot,  at  such  an  hour,  con- 
cluded that  she  must  be  insane,  and  ran  from 
her  in  dismay. 

Fortunately  Oswald  at  this  moment  return- 
ed :  the  voice  of  Corinne  reached  his  ear. 
He  hastened  towards  her,  as  she  was  falling 
to  the  earth  insensible,  and  bore  her  to  the 
palace  portico,  where  he  called  her  back  to 
life  by  the  tenderest  cares. 

As  she  recognized  him,  her  senses  still 
wandered,  and  she  wildly  exclaimed,  "You 

fromised  never  to  depart  without  my  consent ' 
may  now  appear  unworthy  of  your  love  ;  but 
a  promise,  Oswald  !"  "  Corinne,"  he  cried, 
"the  thought  of  leaving  you  never  entered 
my  heart.  I .  would  only  reflect  on  our  fate  ; 
and  wished'  to  recover  my  spirits  ere  I  saw 
you  again."  "  Well,"  she  said,  struggling  to 
appear  calm,  "  you  have  had  time,  during  the 
long  hours  that  might  have  cost  my  life  ;  time 
enough — therefore  speak !  tell  me  what  you 
have  resolved1?"  Oswald,  terrified  at  the 
accents,  which  betrayed  her  inmost  feelings, 
knelt  before  her,  answering,  "  Corinne,  my 
heart  is  unchanged ;  what  have  I  learnt  that 
should  dispel  your  enchantment  1  Only  hear 
me  ;"  and  as  she  trembled  still  more  violently, 
he  added,  with  much  earnestness,  "  Listen 
fearlessly  to  one  who  cannot  live,  and  know 
thou  art  unhappy."  "Ah!"  she  sighed,  "it 
is  of  my  happiness  you  speak ;  v  your  own, 
then,  no  longer  depends  on  me  ?  Yet  I  repel 
not  your  pity  ;  for,  at  this  moment,  I  have 
need  of  it :  but  think  you  I  will  live  for  that 
alone  V  "  No,  no,  we  will  both  live  for  love. 
I  will  return."  "Return!"  interrupted  Co- 
rinne. "Ah,  you  do  go,  then  T  What  has 
happened t  how  is  all  changed  since  yester- 
day? hapless  wretch  that  lam!"  "Dearest 
love,"  returned  Oswald,  "  be  composed ;  and 
let  me,  if  I  can,  explain  my  meaning  ;  it  is 
better  than  you  suppose,  much  better ;  but  it 
is  necessary,  nevertheless,  that  I  should  as- 


certain my  father's  reasons  for  opposing  our 
union  seven  years  since  :  he  never  mentioned 
the  subject  to  me  ;  but  his  most  intimate  sur- 
viving friend  in  England  must  know  his  mo- 
tives. If,  as  I  believe,  they  sprung  from  un- 
important circumstances,  I  can  pardon  your 
desertion  of  your  father's  land  and  mine  ;  to 
so  noble  a  country  love  may  attach  you  yet, 
and  bid  you  prefer  homefelt  peace,  with  its 
gentle  and  natural  virtues,  even  to  the  fame 
of  genius.  I  will  hope  everything,  do  every- 
thing ;  if  my  father  decides  against  thee,  Co- 
rinne, I  will  never  be  the  husband  of  another, 
though  then  I  cannot  be  thine." 

A  cold  dew  stood  on  his  brow :  the  effort 
he  had  made  to  speak  thus,  cost  him  so  much 
agony,  that  for  some  time  Corinne  could  think 
of  nothing  but  the  sad  state  in  which  she  be- 
held him.  At  last  she  took  his  hand,  crying, 
"  So  you  return  to  England  without  me." 
Oswald  was  silent.  "  Cruel !"  she  continued  : 
"  you  say  nothing  to  contradict  my  fears ; 
they  are  just,  then,  though  even  while  saying 
so,  I  cannot  yet  believe  it."  "Thanks  to 
your  cares,"  answered  Nelvil,  "  I  have  re- 
gained the  life  so  nearly  lost :  it  belongs  to 
my  country  during  the  war.  If  I  can  marry 
you,  we  part  no  more.  I  will  restore  you  to 
your  rank  in  England.  If  this  too  happy  lot 
should  be  forbidden  me,  I  shall  return,  with 
the  peace,  to  Italy,  stay  with  you  long,  and 
change  your  fate  in  nothing  save  in  giving 

Trtii     rmp     fnitht'nl    friprirl    thp    mnrft ."        "  Not. 


you   one   faithful  friend  the  .more. 


Not 


change  my  fate  !"  she  repeated ;  "  you  who 
have  become  my  only  interest  in  the  world ! 
to  whom  I  owe  the  intoxicating  draught  which 
gives  happiness  or  death  ?  Yet  tell  me,  at 
least,  this  parting,  when  must  it  be  1  How 
many  days  are  left  me  T'  "  Beloved  !"  he 
cried,  pressing  her  to  his  heart,  "  I  swear, 
that  for  three  months  I  will  not  leave  thee ; 
not,  perhaps,  even  then."  li  Three  months  !" 
she  burst  forth  ;  "  am  I  to  live  so  long  1  it  is 
much,  I  did  not  hope  so  much.  Come,  I  am 
better.  Three  months  1 — what  a  futurity  !" 
she  added,  with  a  mixture  of  joy  and  sadness, 
that  profoundly  affected  Oswald  ;  and  both, 
in  silence,  entered  the  carriage  which  took 
them  back  to  Naples. 


CHAPTER  II. 

CASTEL  FORTE  awaited  them  at  the  inn, 
A  report  had  been  circulated  that  Lord  Nel- 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


115 


I  Til  was  married  to  Corinne  :  it  greatly  pained 
j  the  Prince,  yet  he  came  to  assure  himself  of 
|j  the  fact,  to  regain,  as  a  friend,  the  society  of 
!j  iiis  former  love,  even  if  she  were  for  ever 
!  I  united  to  another.  The  state  of  dejection  in 
j|  wilich  he  beheld  her,  for  the  first  time,  occa- 
||  sioned  him  much  uneasiness;  but  he  dared 
not  question  her,  as  she  seemed  to  avoid  all 
i  conversation  on  this  subject.  There  are 
j  situations  in  which  we  dread  to  confide  in  any 
|  one ;  a  single  word,  that  we  might  say  or 
;  hear,  would  suffice  to  dissipate  the  illusion 
that  supports  our  life.  The  self-deceptions 
jj  of  impassioned  sen  'ment  have  the  peculiarity 
|j  of  humoring  the  he  rt,  as  we  humor  a  friend 
jj  whom  we  fear  to  afflict  by  the  truth;  thus, 
jj  unconsciously,  trust  we  our  own  griefs  to  the 
1 1  protection  of  our  own  pity. 
jj  Next  day,  Corinne,  who  was  too  natural  a 
|-  person  to  attempt  producing  an  effect  by  her 
.,'  sorrows,  strove  to  appear  gay  ;  believing  that 
I  the  best  method  of  retaining  Oswald  was  to 
,i  seem  as  attractive  as  formerly.  She,  there- 
I,  lore,  introduced  some  interesting  topic  ;  but 

•  I  suddenly  her  abstraction  returned,  her  eyes 
i  wandered  :  the  woman  who  had  possessed  the 

•  i  greatest  possible  facility  of  address  now  hesi- 
;  tated  in  her  choice  of  words,  and  sometimes 

i;  used  expressions  that  bore  not  the  slightest 
)•  reference  to  what  she  intended  saying  :  then 
•'  &.-.e  would  laugh  at  herself,  though  through 
i:  ;ears  ;  and  Oswald,  overwhelmed  by  the  wreck 
l,  he  had  made,  would  have  sought  to  be  alone 
,,  with  her,  but  she  carefully  denied  him  an 
':  opportunity. 

,i  ''What  would  you  learn  from  me1?"  she 
1 1  said  one  day,  when,  for  an  instant,  he  insisted 

•  i  on  speaking  with  her.     "I  regret  myself— 
i  tr.at  is  all !     I  had  some  pride  in  my  talents. 

ii  i  ioved  success,  glory.  The  praises,  even  of 
5;  .ndilTerent  persons,  were  objects  of  my  ambi- 
•i  uon;  now  I  care  for  nothing :  and  it  is  not 
.1  ..appiness  that  weans  me  from  these  vain 
pleasures,  but  a  vast  despondency.  I  accuse 

•  not  you;  it  springs  from  myself;  perhaps  I 
u  may  yet  triumph  over  it.     Many  things  pass 
•i  i,1  the  depths  of  the  soul  that  we  can  neither 

;  toresee  nor  direct ;  but  I  do  you  justice,  Os- 
1,  waid  :  I  see  you  suffer  for  me.  I  sympathize 
II  A'itn  you,  too  :  why  should  not  pity  bestow 
.  ner  gifts  on  us  T:  Alas !  they  might  be  offered 

•  >  ill  who  breathe,  without  proving  often  in- 

•  iDDiicable." 

Oswald,  indeed,  was  not  less  wretched  than 
•'  Oormne.  He  loved  her  strongly;  but  her 
'  History  had  wounded  his  affections,  his  way 

•  or  thinking.     He  seemed  to  perceive  clearly 
it  thai  ths  father  had  prejudged  everything  for 
[;  min  ;  and  that  he  could  only  %ved  Corinne  in 

|  defiance  of  such  warning  ; — yet  how  resign 
)J  her  ?  His  uncertainty  was  more  painful  than 

il 


that  which  he  hoped  to  terminate  by  a  know- 
ledge of  har  life.  On  her  'part,  she  had  not 
wished  that  the  tie  of  marriage  should  unite 
her  to  Oswald  :  so  she  could  have  been  cer- 
tain that  he  would  never  leave  her,  she  would 
have  wanted  no  more  to  render  her  content ; 
but  she  knew  him  well  enough  to  understand 
that  he  could  conceive  no  happiness  save  in 
domestic  life  ;  and  would  never  abjure  the 
design  of  marrying  her,  save  in  ceasing  to 
love.  His  departure  for  England  appeared 
the  signal  for  her  death.  She  was  aware 
how  great  an  influence  the  manners  and  opi- 
nions of  his  country  held  over  his  mind.  It 
was  in  vain  that  he  talked  of  passing  his  life 
with  her  in  Italy  ;  she  doubted  not  tha*,  once 
returned  to  his  home,  the  thought  of  quitting 
it  again  would  be  odious  to  him.  She  felt 
that  she  owed  her  power  to  her  charms  ;  and 
what  is  that  power  in  absence  ?  What  are 
the  memories  of  imagination  to  a  man  encir- 
cled by  all  the  realities  of  social  order,  the 
more  imperious  from  being  founded  on  pure 
and  noble  reason  1 

Tormented  by  these  reflections,  Corinne 
strove  to  exert  some  power  over  her  attach- 
ment. She  tried  to  speak  with  Castel  Forte 
on  literature  and  the  fine  arts  ;  but,  if  Oswald 
joined  them,  the  dignity  of  his  mien,  the  me- 
lancholy look  which  seemed  to  ask,  "  Why 
will  you  renounce  me  V  disconcerted  all  her 
attempts.  Twenty  times  would  she  have  told 
him,  that  his  irresolution  offended  her,  and 
that  she  was  decided  to  leave  him  ;  but  she 
saw  him  now  lean  upon  his  hand,  as  if  bending 
breathless  beneath  his  sorrows  ;  now  musing 
beside  the  sea,  or  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven, 
at  the  sound  of  music ;  and  these  simple 
changes,  whose  magic  was  known  but  to  her- 
self, suddenly  overthrew  her  determination. 
A  look,  an  accent,  a  certain  grace  of  gesture, 
reveals  to  love  the  nearest  secrets  of  the  soul ; 
and,  perhaps,  a  countenance,  so  apparently 
cold  as  Nelvil's,  can  never  be  read,  save  by 
those  to  whom  it  is  dearest.  Impartiality 
guesses  nothing,  judges  only  by  what  is  dis- 
played. Corinne,  in  solitude,  essayed  a  test 
which  had  succeeded  on  a  former  occasion, 
when  she  believed  that  she  loved.  She  taxed 
her  spirit  of  observation  (which  was  capable 
of  detecting  the  slightest  foibles)  to  represent 
Oswald  beneath  less  seducing  colors ;  but 
there  was  nothing  about  him  that  was  not 
noble,  simple,  and  affecting.  How  then  defeat 
the  spefl  of  so  perfectly  natural  a  mind  ?  It 
is  only  affectation  which  can  admit  of  that 
sudden  awakening  of  heart,  astonished  at 
^having  loved. 

Besides,  there  existed  between  Oswald  and 
Corinne  a  singular,  all-powerful  sympathy. 
Their  tastes  were  not  the  same  ;  their  opinions 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


r  Je.v  accorded  ;  yet  in  the  centre  of  each 
.l«.u»  (melt  kindred  'mysteries,  drawn  from  one 
KUZCC;  a  secret  likeness,  that  attests  the 
tame  nature,  however  differently  modified  by 
t.  u'cfnai  circumstances.  Corinne,  therefore, 
f  cc.23  co  her  dismay,  that  she  had  but  increased 
Its  uassion,  by  thus  minutely  considering  Os- 
\Ki&  aa  w,  even  in  her  very  struggle  against 
the  imo  ession  which  he  had  caused. 

ane  invited  Castel  Forte  to  return  to  Rome 
vitn  ;hem.  Nelvil  knew  she  did  this  to  avoid 
lx-\~eiS  alone  with  him  :  he  felt  it  sadly,  but 
C-JJIQ  not  oppose.  He  was  no  longer  per- 
fiaaed  that  his  society  alone  would  suffice  foi 
lifr  nappiness  ;  and  this  thought  rendered  him 
tjnuc,  She,  the  while,  had  hoped  he  would 
refuse  the  Prince's  company.  Their  situation 
vas  no  longer  honest  as  of  old  :  though  as  yet 
vunout  actual  dissimulation,  restraint  already 
troubled  an  attachment,  which  for  six  months 
lau  daily  conferred  on  them  a  bliss  almost 
unqualified.  Returning  by  Capua  and  Gae'ta, 
scenes  which  she  had  so  lately  visited  with 
B-Jcb  delight,  Corinne  felt  that  these  beauties 
vamiy  called  on  her  to  reflect  their  smile. 
Wnen  such  a  sky  fails  to  disperse  the  clouds 
tf  care,  its  gay  contrast  but  augments  their 


Tney  arrived  at  Terracina  on  a  deliciously 
refreshing  eve.  Corinne  withdrew  after  sup- 
per. Oswald  went  forth,  and  his  heart,  like 
hers,  led  him  towards  the  spot  where  they  had 
rested  on  their  way  to  Naples.  He  beheld 
her,  kneeling  before  the  rock  on  which  they 
feac  ;  and,  as  he  looked  on  the  moon,  saw  that 
she  was  veiled  by  a  cloud,  as  she  had  been 
two  months  since  at  that  hour.  Corinne,  at 
his  approach,  rose,  and  pointing  upwards,  said, 
'  Have  I  not  reason  to  believe  in  omens  1  Is 
there  not  some  compassion  in  that  heaven  ?  It 
warned  me  of  the  future  ;  and  to-night,  you 
see,  it  mourns  for  me.  Forget  not,  Oswald, 
to  remark,  if  such  a  cloud  passes  not  over  the 
moon  when  I  am  dying."  ''Corinne,"  he 
cried,  "  have  I  deserved  that  you  should  make 
roe  expire  with  grief?  It  were  easily  done  : 
speak  thus  again,  and  you  will  see  me  lifeless 
at  your  feet,  —  but  what  is  my  crime  ]  Your 
mode  of  thinking  lifts  you  above  the  world's 
opinion  :  in  your  country  it  is  not  severe  ;  and 
if  it  were,  your  genius  could  surmount  it. 
Wnatever  happens,  I  will  live  near  you  ; 
whence,  then,  this  despair  ?  If  I  cannot  be 
you;  husband,  without  offence  to  the  memory 
of  one  who  reigns  equally  Ytfith  yourself  in 
my  breast,  —  do  you  not  love  me  well  enough 
to  find  some  solace  in  the  tender  devotion  of 
n-.ine  every  instant  ?  Have  you  not  still  my 
ring  *  that  sacred  pledge  ?"  "  I  will  return 
it,  Oswald."  "Never!"  "Ah,  yes,  when 
you  desire  it  ;  the  ring  itself  will  tell  me. 


An  old  legend  says,  that  the  diamond,  more 
true  than  man,  dims  when  the  giver  has  be- 
trayed our  trust"  (30).  "  Corinne,"  said  Os- 
wald, "  dare  you  speak  such  treason  ?  your 
mind  is  lost ;  it  no  longer  knows  me."  "  Par- 
don !  oh,  pardon  me  !  in  love  like  mine,  the 
heart,  Oswald,  is  gifted  suddenly  with  most 
miraculous  instincts ;  and  its  own  sufferings 
become  oracles.  What  portend,  then,  tite 
heavy  palpitations  of  my  heart  ^  Ah,  my 
friend,'I  should  not  fear  it,  if  it  were  but  my 
death  knell !" 

She  fled,  precipitately,  dreading  to  remain  ' 
longer  with  him.  She  could  not  dally  with 
her  grief,  but  sought  to  oreak  from  it ;  yet  it 
returned  but  the  more  '  iolently  for  her  efforts 
to  subdue  it.  The  next  day,  as  they  crossed 
the  Pontine  Marsh,  Oswald's  care  of  her  was 
even  more  scrupulous  than  before  ;  she  re- 
ceived it  with  the  sweetest  thankfulness  :  but 
there  was  something  in  her  look  that  said, 
"  Why  will  you  not  let  me  die  ?'' 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHAT  a  desert  seems  Rome,  in  going  to  it 
from  Naples !  Entering  by  the  gate  of  St. 
John  Lateran,  you  traverse  but  long,  solitary 
streets ;  they  please  afresh  after  a  little  time  ; 
but,  on  just  leaving  a  lively,  dissipated  popula- 
tion, it  is  melancholy  to  be  thrown  upon  one's 
self,  even  were  that  self  at  ease.  Beside? 
this,  Rome,  towards  the  end  of  July,  is  a  dan- 
gerous residence.  The  malaria  renders  many 
quarters  uninhabitable ;  and  the  contagion 
ofcen  spreads  through  the  whole  city.  This 
year,  particularly,  every  face  bore  the  impress 
of  apprehension.  Corione  was  met  at  her 
own  door  by  a  monk,  who  asked  leave  to  bless 
her  house  against  infection  ;  she  consented  ; 
and  the  priest  walked  through  the  rooms, 
sprinkling  holy  water,  and  repeating  Latin 
prayers.  Lord  Nelvil  smiled  at  this  ceremony 
— Corinne's  heart  melted  over  it.  "  I  find  in- 
definable charms,"  she  said,  "  in  all  that  is  re- 
ligious, or  even  superstitious,  while  nothing 
hostile  nor  intolerant  blends  with  it.  Divine 
aid  is  so  needful,  when  our  thoughts  stray 
from  the  common  path,  that  the  highest  minds 
most  require  superhuman  care."  "  Doubtless 
such  want  exists,  but  can  it  thus  be  satisfied  ?" 
"  I  never  refuse  a  prayer  Associated  with  my 
own,  from  whomsoever  it  is  offered  me." 
"  You  are  right,"  said  Nelvil,  giving  his  purse 
to  the  old  friar,  who  departed,  with  benedic- 
I  tions  OK  them  both. 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


117 


When  the  friends  of  Corinne  heard  of  her 
return,  they  flocked  to  see  her  :  if  any  won- 
dered that  she  was  not  Oswald's  wife,  none, 
at  least,  asked  the  reason  :  the  pleasure  of 
regaining  her  diverted  them  from  every  other 
thought.  Corinne  endeavored  to  appear  un- 
changed ;  but  she  could  not  succeed.  She 
revisited  the  works  of  art  that  once  afforded 
her  such  vivid  pleasure  ;  but  sorrow  was  the 
base  of  her  every  feeling  now.  At  the  Villa 
Borghese,  or  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella,  she 
no  longer  enjoyed  that  reverie  on  the  insta- 
bility of  human  blessings,  which  lends  them 
a  still  more  touching  character.  A  fixed, 
ji  despondent  pensiveness  absorbed  her.  Na- 
1 1  ture,  who  ever  speaks  to  the  heart  vaguely, 
can  do  nothing  for  it  when  oppressed  by  real 
calamities.  Oswald  and  Corinne  were  worse 
than  unhappy ;  for  actual  misery  oft  causes 
such  emotions  as  relieve  the  laden  breast ;  and 
from  the  storm  may  burst  a  flash  .pointing  the 
onward  way  :  but  mutual  restraint,  and  fruit- 
less efforts  to  escape  pursuing  recollections, 
made  them  even  discontented  with  one  an- 
otheT.  Indeed,  how  can  we  suffer  thus,  with- 
out accusing  the  being  we  love  as  the  cause  ? 
True,  a  word,  a  look,  suffices  to  efface  our 
displeasure  ;  but  that  look,  that  word,  may  not 
come  when  most  expected,  or  most  needful. 
Nothing  in  love  can  be  premeditated  ;  it  is  as 
a  power  divine,  that  thinks  and  feels  within 
us  unswayed  by  our  control. 

A  fever,  more  malignant   than   had   been 
known  in  Rome  for  some  years,  now  broke 
out  suddenly.     A  young  woman  was  attacked  : 
her   friends   and   family  refused  to  fly,  and 
perished  with  her.     The  next  house    expe- 
rienced the  same  devastation.     Every  hour 
a  holy  fraternity,  veiled  in  white,  accompanied 
the  dead  to  interment ;  themselves  appearing 
like  the  ghosts  of  those  they  followed.     The 
J  bodies,  with  their  faces  uncovered,  are  borne 
on  a  kind  of  litter.     Over  their  feet  is  thrown 
a  pall  of  gold  or  rose-color  satin  ;  and  children 
i  often  unconsciously  play  with  the  cold  hands 
j'  of  the  corpse.     This  spectacle,  at  once  terrific 
' '  and  familiar,  is  graced  but  by  the  monotonous 
j!  murmur  of  a  psalm,  in  which  the  accent  of 
!'  the  human  soul  can  scarce  be  recognized. 

One  evening,  when  Oswald  and  Corinne 
i  |  were  alone  together,  and  he  more  depressed 
j:  than  usual  by  her  altered  manner,  he  heard, 
I1  beneath  the  windows,  these  dreary  sounds, 
i ''  announcing  a  funeral :  he  listened  awhile  in 
':  silence,  and  then  said,  "Perhaps  to-morrow 
''  I  may  be  seized  by  this  same  malady,  against 
!|  which  there  is  no  defence  ;  you  will  then  wish 
J'  that  you  had  said  a  few  kind  words  to  me  on 
ji  the  day  that  it  may  be  my  last.  Corinne, 
I1  ieath  threatens  us  both  closely.  Are  there 
)'  no  miseries  enough  in  life,  that  we  should 


thus  mutually  augment  each  other's  V  Struck 
by  the  idea  of  his  danger,  she  now  entreated 
him  to  leave  Rome  instantly  ;  he  stubbornly 
refused  :  she  then  proposed  their  going  toge- 
ther to  Venice  ;  to  this  he  cheerfully  assented  : 
it  was  for  her  alone  that  he  had  trembled. 

Their  departure  was  fixed  for  the  second 
day  from  this  ;  but,  on  that  morning,  Oswald, 
who  had  not  seen  Corinne  the  night  before, 
received  a  note,  informing  him  that  indis- 
pensable business  obliged  her  to  visit  Flor- 
ence ;  but  that  she  should  rejoin  him  at  Venice 
in  a  fortnight :  she  begged  him  to  take  Ancona 
in  his  way,  and  gave  him  a  seemingly  impor- 
tant commission  to  execute  for  her  there. 
Her  style  was  more  calm  and  considerate 
than  he  had  found  it  since  they  left  Naples. 
He  believed  her  implicitly,  and  prepared  for 
his  journey ;  but,  wishing  once  more  to  behold 
the  dwelling  of  Corinne  ere  he  left  Rome,  he 
went  thither,  found  it  shut  up,  and  rapped  at 
the  door.  An  old  woman  appeared,  told  him 
that  all  the  other  servants  had  gone  with  her 
mistress,  and  would  not  answer  another  word 
to  his  numerous  questions.  He  hastened  to 
Prince  Castel  Forte,  who  was  as  surprised  as 
himself  at  Corinne's  abrupt  retirement.  Nel- 
vil,  all  anxiety,  imagined  that  her  agent  at 
Tivoli  must  have  received  some  instructions 
as  to  her  affairs. 

He  mounted  his  horse  with  a  promptitude 
unusual  to  him,  and,  in  extreme  agitation, 
rode  to  her  country  house :  its  doors  were 
open ;  he  entered,  passed  some  of  the  rooms 
without  meeting  any  one,  till  he  reached  that 
of  Corinne  :  though  darkness  reigned  there, 
he  saw  her  on  her  bed,  with  Theresina  alone 
beside  her  :  he  uttered  a  cry  of  recognition  ; 
it  recalled  her  consciousness  :  she  raised  her- 
self, saying  eagerly, — "  Do  not  come  near 
me  !  I  forbid  you  !  1  die  if  you  do  !"  Oswald 
felt  as  if  his  beloved  were  accusing  him  of 
some  crime  which  she  had  all  at  once  sus- 
pected :  believing  himself  hated — scorned — 
he  fell  on  his  knees,  with  a  despairing  submis- 
sion which  suggested  to  Corinne  the  idea  of 
profiting  by  this  mistake,  and  she  commanded 
him  to  leave  her  for  ever,  as  if  he  had  in  truth 
been  guilty.  Speechless  with  wonder,  he 
would  have  obeyed,  when  Theresina  sobbed 
forth, — '•"  Oh,  my  Lord  !  will  you  then  desert 
my  dear  lady?  She  has  sent  every  one 
away,  and  would  fain  banish  me,  too  :  for  she 
has  caught  the  infectious  fever !" 

These  words  instantly  explained  the  affect- 
ing stratagem  of  Corinne  ;  and  Oswald  clasped 
her  to  his  heart,  with  a  transport  of  tender- 
ness, such  as  he  had  never  before  experi- 
enced. In  vain  she  repelled  him ;  in  vain  she 
reproached  Theresina.  Oswald  bade  the  good 
creature  withdraw,  and  lavished  his  tearful 


118 


CORINNE;  OR,  ITALY. 


kisses  on  the  face  of  his  adored.  "  Now, 
now,"  he  cried,  "  thou  shall  not  die  without 
me :  if  the  fatal  poison  be  in  thy  Veins,  at 
least,  thank  Heaven,  I  breathe  it  in  thine 
arras." — "Dear,  cruel  Oswald!"  she  sighed, 
"  to  what  tortures  you  condemn  me !  Oh,  God  ! 
since  he  will  not  live  without  me,  let  not  my 
better  angel  perish  !  no,  save  him,  save  him  !" 
Here  her  strength  was  lost,  and,  for  eight 
days,  she  remained  in  the  greatest  danger. 
In  the  midst  of  her  delirium,  she  would  cry, 
— "  Keep  Oswald  from  me  !  let  him  not  come 
here !  never  tell  him  where  I  am !"  When 
her  reason  returned,  she  gazed  on  him,  mur- 
muring,— "  Oswald  !  in  death  as  in  life  you 
are  with  rne  ;  we  shall  be  re-united."  When 
she  perceived  how  pale  he  was,  a  deadly  ter- 
ror seized  her,  and  she  called  to  his  aid  the 
physicians  who  had  given  her  a  strong  proof 
of  devotion  in  never  having  abandoned  her. 
Oswald  constantly  held  her  burning  hands  in 
his,  and  finished  the  cup  of  which  she  had 
drank ;  in  fact,  with  such  avidity  did  he  share 
her  perils,  that  she  herself  ceased,  at  last,  to 
combat  this  passionate  self-sacrifice.  Lean- 
ing her  head  upon  his  arm,  she  resigned  her- 
self to  his  will.  Two  beings  who  so  love  that 
they  feel  the  impossibility  of  living  without 
ach  other,  may  well  attain  the  noble  and  ten- 
der intimacy  which  puts  all  things  in  common, 
even  death  itself.  (31.)  Happily,  Lord  Xel- 
vil  did  not  take  the  disease  through  which  he 
so  carefully  nursed  Corinne.  She  recovered  ; 
but  another  malady  penetrated  yet  deeper  into 
her  breast.  The  generosity  of  her  lover,  alas ! 
redoubled  the  attachment  she  had  borne  him. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IT  was  then  settled,  that  to  escape  the 
pestilential  air  of  Rome,  Nelvil  and  Corinne 
should  go  to  Venice  in  company.  They  had 
relapsed  into  silence  on  their  future  prospects, 
rat  spoke  of  their  affection  more  confidingly 
than  ever.  Both  avoided  all  topics  that  could 
disturb  their  present  mutual  peace.  A  day 
passed  with  him  was  to  her  such  enjoyment ! 
He  seemed  so  to  revel  in  her  conversation, — 
to  follow  her  every  impulse,  study  her  slightest 
wish,  with  so  sustained  an  interest,  that  it 
appeared  impossible  he  could  bestow  so  much 
felicity  without  being  himself  happy.  Corinne 
drew  assurances  of  safety  from  the  bliss  she 
tasted.  After  some  months  of  such  habits  we 
believe  them  inseparable  from  our  existence. 


Her  agitation  was  calmed  again,  and  her  na- 
tural heedlessness  of  the  future  returned. 

Yet,  on  the  eve  of  quitting  Rome,  she  be- 
came extremely  melancholy.  This  time  she 
both  hoped  and  feared  that  it  was  for  ever. 
The  right  before  her  departure,  unable  to 
sleep,  she  heard  a  party  of  Romans  singing  in 
the  moonlight.  She  could  not  resist  her  de- 
sire to  follow  them,  and  once  more  wander 
through  that  beloved  scene.  She  dressed  : 
and  bidding  her  servants  keep  the  carriage 
within  sight  of  her,  put  on  a  veil,  to  avoid  re- 
cognition, and,  at  some  distance,  followed  the 
musicians.  They  paused  on  the  bridge  of  St. 
Angelo,  in  front  of  Adrian's  tomb  :  in  such  a 
spot,  music  seems  to  express  the  vanities  and 
splendors  of  the  world.  One  might  fancy  one 
beheld  in  the  air  the  imperial  shade  wondering 
to  find  no  other  trace  left  of  his  power  on 
earth  except  a  tomb.  The  band  continued 
their  walk,  singing  as  they  went,  to  the  silent 
night,  when  the  happy  ought  to  sleep  :  their 
pure  and  gentle  melodies  seemed  designed  to 
solace  wakeful  suffering.  Drawn  onward  by 
this  resistless  spell,  Corinne,  insensible  to 
fatigue,  seemed  winging  her  way  along.  They 
also  sang  before  Antoninus'  pillar,  and  then  at 
Trajan's  column  :  they  saluted  the  obelisk  of 
St.  John  Lateran.  The  ideal  language  of 
music  worthily  mates  the  ideal  expression  of 
works  like  these  :  enthusiasm  reigns  alone, 
while  vulgar  interests  slumber.  At  last  the 
singers  departed,  and  left  Corinne  near  the 
Coliseum  :  she  wished  to  enter  its  enclosure 
and  bid  adieu  to  ancient  Rome. 

Those  who  have  seen  this  place  by  day 
only,  cannot  judge  of  the  impression  it  may 
make.  (The  sun  of  Italy  should  shine  on 
festivals ;  but  the  moon  is  the  star  of  ruins.) 
Sometimes,  through  the  openings  of  the  am- 
phitheatre, which"  seems  towering  to  the 
clouds,  a  portion  of  heaven's  vault  appears 
like  a  dark  blue  curtain.  The  plants  that 
cling  to  the  broken  walls  all  wear  the  hues  of 
night.  The  soul  at  once  shudders  and  melts 
on  finding  itself  alone  with  nature.  One  side 
of  this  edifice  is  much  more  fallen  than  the 
other  :  as  two  contemporaries  make  an  uneq  ia.. 
struggle  against  time.  He  fells  the  weakest ; 
the  other  still  resists,  but  soon  must  yield. 

"  Ye  solemn  scenes  !"  cried  Corinne, 
where,  at  this  hour,  no  being  breathes  beside 
me, — where  but  the  echoes  of  my  own  voice 
answer  me, — how  are  the  storms  of  passlan 
calmed  by  nature,  who  thus  peacefully  permits 
so  many  generations  to  glide  by  !  Has  not 
the  universe  some  better  end  than  man  ?  or 
are  its  marvels  scattered  here,  merely  jty  be 
reflected  in  his  mind?  Oswald!  why  da  I 
love  with  such  idolatry  ?  why  live  but  for  ;b/3 
feelings  of  a  day,  compared  to  the  iniaire 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


119 


hopes  that  unite  us  with  divinity  ?     My  God ! 
if  it  be  true,  as  I  believe,  that  we  admire  thee 
the  more,  the  more  capable  we  are  of  reflec- 
tion, make  my  own  mind  my  refuge  against  my 
•  heart .     The  noble  being  whose  gentle  looks 
!  I  can  never  forget  is  but  a  perishable  mortal 
like  myself.    Among  the  stars  there  is  eternal 
love,  alone  sufficing   to  a  boundless  heart." 
i  Corinne  remained  long   lost   in  these  ideas, 
i  and,  at  last,  turned  slowly  towards  her  own 
,  abode  ;  but,  ere  she  re-entered  it,  she  wished 
to  await  the  dawn  at  St.   Peter's,  and  from 
|  ils  dome  take  her  last  leave  of  all  beneath. 

Her  imagination  represented  this  edifice  as 
it  must  be,  when,  in  its  turn  a  wreck, — the 
theme  of  wonder  for  yet  unborn  ages.  The 
columns,  now  erect,  half  bedded  in  earth ;  the 
porch  dilapidated,  with  the  Egyptian  obelisk 
exulting  over  the  decay  of  the  more  recent 
ruins  wrought  for  an  eartnly  immortality. 
From  the  summit  of  St.  Peter's  Corinne  be- 
held day  rise  over  Rome,  which,  in  its  uncul- 
tivated Campagna,  looks  like  the  Oasis  of  a 
Libyan  desert.  Devastation  is  around  it ; 
but  the  multitude  of  spires  and  cupolas,  over 
which  St.  Peter's  rises,  give  a  strange  beauty 
to  its  aspect.  This  city  may  boast  one  charm 
pe<.uliar  to  itself:  we  love  it  as  an  animated 
being :  its  ruins  are  as  friends,  from  whom 
we  cannot  part  without  farewell. 

Corinne  addressed  the  Pantheon,  St.  An- 
gelo's,  and  all  the  places  where  she  had  so 
often  renewed  the  pleasures  of  her  imagina- 
tion.    "  Adieu  !"  she  said,  "  land  of  remem- 
brances !  scenes  where  life  depends  not  on 
events,  nor  on  society  ;  where  enthusiasm  re- 
!  freshes  itself  through  the  eyes,  and  links  the 
I  soul  to  each  external  objeqt.     I  leave  you,  to 
I  follow  Oswald,  not  knowing  to  what  fate  he 
j  may  consign  me.     I  prefer  him  to  the  inde- 
j  pendence  which  here  afforded  me  such  happy 
i  days.     I  may  return  again  ; — but  for  a  broken 
j  heart  and   blighted  mind,  ye  arts  and  momi- 
j  ments,  so  oft  invoked,  while  I  was  exiled  be- 
I  neath  his  stormy  sky,  ye  can  do  nothing." 

She  .wept ;  yet  thought  not,  for  an  instant, 
j  of  letting  Oswald  depart  without  her.  Reso- 
lutions springing  from  the  heart,  we  often 
justly  blame,  yet  hesitate  not  to  adopt.  When 
passion  masters  a  superior  mind,  it  separates 
reason  from  action,  and  need  not  to  cloud  the 
one  in  order  to  overrule  thl  other. 

Corinne's  black  curls  and  veil  floating  on 
t'n^  breeze  gave  her  so  picturesque  an  air, 
that,  as  she  left  the  church,  the  common  peo- 
ple recognized  and  followed  her  to  her  car- 
riage with  the  warmest  testimonials  of  re- 
spect.    She  sighed  again,  at  parting  from  a 
race  so  ardent  and  so  graceful  in  their  expres- 
;  sions  of   esteem.   '  Nor   was   this   all.     She 
j  tiad   to   endure   the   regrets  of  her   friends. 


They  devised  fetes  in  order  to  delay  her  de- 
parture :  their  poetical  tributes  strove  in  a 
thousand  ways  to  convince  her  that  she  ought 
to  stay  ;  and,  finally,  they  accompanied  her  on 
horseback  for  twenty  miles.  She  was  ex- 
tremely affected.  Oswald  cast  down  his  eyes 
in  confusion,  reproaching  himself  for  tearing 
her  from  so  much  delight,  though  he  knew 
that  an  offer  of  remaining  there  would  be  more 
barbarous  still.  He  appeared  selfish  in  re- 
moving Corinne  from  Rome  ;  yet  he  was  not 
so  ;  for  the  fear  of  afflicting  her,  by  setting 
forth  alone,  had  more  weight  with  him  than 
even  the  hope  of  retaining  her  presence.  He 
knew  not  what  he  was  about  to  do, — saw  no- 
thing beyond  Venice.  He  had  written  to  in- 
quire how  soon  his  regiment  would  be  active- 
ly employed  in  the  war,  and  awaited  a  reply. 
Sometimes  he  thought  of  taking  Corinne  with 
j  him  to  England  ;  yet  instantly  remembered 
that  he  should  for  ever  ruin  her  reputation  by 
so  doing,  unless  she  were  his  wife  ;  then  he 
wished  to  soften  the  pangs  of  separation  by  a 
private  marriage  ;  but  a  moment  afterwards 
gave  up  that  plan  also.  "  We  can  keep  no 
secrets  from  the  dead,"  he  cried  ;  "  and  what 
should  I  gain  by  making  a  mystery  of  an  union 
prohibited  by  nothing  but  my  worship  of  a 
tomb  ?•"  His  mind,  so  weak  in  all  that  con- 
cerned his  affections,  was  sadly  agitated  by 
contending  sentiments.  Corinne  resigned 
herself  to  him,  like  a  victim,  exulting,  amid 
her  sorrows,  in  the  sacrifices  she  made  ;  while 
Oswald,  responsible  for  the  welfare  of  anoth- 
er, bound  himself  to  her  daily  by  new  ties, 
without  the  power  of  yielding  to  them  ;  and, 
unhappy  in  his  love  as  in  his  conscience,  felt 
the  presence  of  both  but  in  their  combats 
with  each  other. 

When  the  friends  of  Corinne  took  leave, 
they  commended  her  earnestly  to  his  care  ; 
congratulated  him  on  the  love  of  so  eminent 
a  woman  ;  their  every  word  sounding  like 
mockery  and  upbraiding.  She  felt  this  ;  has- 
tily concluded  the  trying  scene  ;  and  when, 
after  turning  from  time  to  time  to  salute  her, 
they  were  at  last  lost  to  her  sight,  she  only 
said  to  her  lover,  "  Oswald  !  I  have  now  no 
one  but  you  in  the  world  !"  How  did  he  long 
to  swear  he  would  be  hers !  But  frequent 
disappointments  teach  us  to  mistrust  our  own 
inclinations,  and  shrink  even  from  the  vows 
our  hearts  may  prompt.  Corinne  read  his 
thoughts,  and  delicately  strove  to  fix  his  at- 
tention on  the  country  through  which  they 
travelled. 


120 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IT  was  the  beginning  of  September,  and 
the  weather  superb  till  they  neared  the  Apen- 
nines, where  they  felt  the  approach  of  winter. 
A  soft  air  is  seldom  united  with  the  pleasure 
of  looking  on  picturesque  mountains.  One 
evening  a  terrible  hurricane  arose  :  the  thick- 
est darkness  closed  around  them ;  and  the 
horses,  so  wild  there  that  they  are  even  har- 
nessed by  stratagem,  set  off  with  inconceiva- 
ble rapidity.  Our  lovers  felt  much  excited  by 
being  thus  hurried  on  together.  "  Ah  !" 
cried  Oswald,  "  if  they  could  bear  us  from  all 
I  know  on  earth, — if  they  could  climb  these 
hills,  and  dash  into  another  life,  where  we 
should  regain  my  father,  who  would  receive 
and  bless  us,  would  you  not  go  with  me,  be- 
loved ?"  He  pressed  her  vehemently  to  his 
bosom.  Corinne,  enamored  as  himself,  re- 
plied, "  Dispose  of  me  as  you  will ;  chain  me 
like  a  slave  to  your  fate  :  had  not  the  slaves 
of  other  days  talents  that  soothed  their  mas- 
ters ?  Such  would  I  be  to  thee.  But,  Os- 
wald, yet  respect  her  who  thus  trusts  thee  : 
condemned  by  all  the  world,  she  must  not 
blush  to  meet  thine  eye."  "  No,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "  I  will  lose  all,  or  all  obtain.  I 
ought,  I  must,  either  live  thy  hu-sband,  or  die 
in  stifling  the  transports  of  my  passion  :  but 
I  will  hope  to  be  thine  before  the  world,  and 
glory  in  thy  tenderness.  Yet  tell  me,  I  con- 
jure thee,  have  I  not  sunk  in  thine  esteem  by 
all  these  struggles  1  Canst  thou  think  I  love 
thee  less !"  His  accents  were  so  sincere 
that,  for  awhile,  they  gave  her  back  her  con- 
fidence, and  the  purest,  sweetest  rapture  ani- 
mated them  both. 

Meanwhile  the  horses  stopped.  Oswald 
alighted  first.  The  cold,  sharp  wind  almost 
made  him  fancy  himself  landing  in  England  : 
this  freezing  air  was  not  like  that  of  Italy, 
which  bids  , young  breasts  forget  all  things 
save  love.  Oswald  sunk  back  into  his  gloom. 
Corinne,  who  knew  the  unsettled  nature  of 
his  fancy,  but  too  well  guessed  the  cause.  On 
the  morrow,  they  arrived  at  our  Lady  of  Lo- 
retto,  which  stands  upon  an  eminence,  from 
whence  is  seen  the  Adriatic.  While  Oswald 
gave  some  orders  for  their  journey,  Corinne 
entered  the  church,  where  the  image  of  the 
Virgin  is  enclosed  in  the  choir  of  a  small 
chapel,  adorned  with  bas-reliefs.  The  mar- 
ble pavement  that  surrounds,the  sanctuary  is 
worn  by  pilgrim  knees.  Corinne,  moved  by 
these  marks  of  prayer,  knelt  on  the  stones 
so  often  pressed  by  the  unfortunate,  and  ad- 
dressed the  type  of  heavenly  truth  and  sensi- 
bility. Oswald  here  found  her  bathed  in  tears. 
He  did  not  understand  how  a  woman  of  her 
mind  could  bow  to  the  practices  of  the  igno- 


rant. She  guessed  this  by  his  looks,  and 
said,  "  Dear  Oswald,  are  there  not  many  mo- 
ments when  we  dare  not  raise  our  hopes  to 
the  Supreme  Being,  or  breathe  to  him  the 
sorrows  of  our  hearts  1  Is  it  not  pleasing, 
then,  to  behold  a  woman  as  intercessor  for 
our  human  weakness  1  She  suffered  on  this 
earth,  for  she  lived  on  it ;  to  her  I  blush  not 
to  pray  for  you,  when  a  petition  to  God  himself 
would  overawe  me."  "I  cannot  always  directly 
supplicate  my  Maker,"  replied  Oswald.  "  I, 
too,  have  my  intercessor  :  the  guardian  angel 
of  children  is  their  father  :  and  since  mine 
has  been  in  heaven,  I  have  oft  received  an 
unexpected  solace,  aid,  and  composure,  which 
I  can  but  attribute  to  the  miraculous  protec- 
tion whence  I  shall  hope  to  escape  from  my 
perplexities."  "  I  comprehend  you,"  said 
Corinne,  "  and  believe  there  is  no  one  who 
has  not  some  mysterious  idea  of  his  own  des- 
tiny,— one  event  which  he  has  always  dread- 
ed, and  which,  though  improbable,  is  sure  to 
happen.  The  punishment  of  some  fault, 
though  it  be  impossible  to  trace  the  connection 
our  misfortunes  have  with  it,  often  strikes  the 
imagination.  From  my  childhood  I  ,trembled 
at  the  idea  of  living  in  England.  Well  ;  my 
inability  to  do  so  may  be  my  worst  regret ; 
and  on  that  point  I  feel  there  is  something 
unconquerable  in  my  fate,  against  which  I 
struggle  in  vain.  Every  one  conceives  his 
life  interiorly  a  contrast  to  what  it  seems  :  we 
have  a  confused  sense  of  some  supernatural 
power,  disguised  in  the  form  of  external  cir- 
cumstance, while  itself  alone  is  the  source  of 
all  our  actions.  Dear  friend,  minds  capable 
of  reasoning,  for  ever  plunge  into  their  own 
abyss,  but  always  fail  to  fathom  it." 

Oswald,  as  he  heard  her  speak  thus,  wonder- 
ed to  find  that,  while  she  was  capable  of  such 
glowing  sentiments,  her  judgment  still  could 
hover  over  them,  like  their  presiding  genius 
''  No,"  he  frequently  said  to  himself,  "  no 
other  society  on  earth  can  satisfy  the  man 
who  has  possessed  such  a  companion  as 
this." 

They  entered  Ancona  at  night,  as  he  wished 
not  to  be  recognized  ;  in  spite  of  his  precau- 
tions, however,  he  was  so ;  and  the  next 
morning  all  the  inhabitants  crowded  about  the 
house  in  which  he  stayed,  awaking  Corinne 
by  shouts  of  "Long  live  Lord  Nelvil,  our 
benefactor!"  She  started,  rose  hastily,  and 
mingled  with  the  crowd,  to  hear  their  praises 
of  the  man  she  loved.  Oswald,  informed  thai 
the  people  were  impatiently  calling  for  him, 
was  at  last  obliged  to  appear.  He  believed 
Corinne  still  slept  :  what  was  his  astonish- 
ment at  finding  her  already  known  and  cne- 
rished  by  the  grateful  multitude,  who  entreated 
her  to  be  their  interpretess  !  Corinne's  ima- 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


121 


gination — by  turns  her  charm  and  her  defect 
— delighted  in  extraordinary  adventures.  She 
thanked  Lord  Nelvil,  in  the  name  of  the  peo- 
ple, with  a  grace  so  noble  that  the  natives 
were  in  ecstasies.  Speaking  for  them,  she 
said,  "  You  preserved  us, — we  owe  you  our 
lives !"  But  when  she  offered  him  the  oak 
and  laurel  crown  they  had  entwined,  an  indefi- 
nite timidity  beset  her  :  the  enthusiastic  popu- 
lace prostrated  themselves  before  him,  and 
Corinne  involuntarily  bent  her  knee  in  tender- 
ing him  the  garland.  Oswald  was  so  over- 
j  whelmed  at  the  sight,  that  he  could  no  longer 
support  this  scene,  nor  the  public  homage  of 
his  beloved  .  but  drew  her  away  with  him. 
She  wept,  and  thanked  the  good  inhabitants  of 
Ancona,  who  followed  them  with  blessings,  as 
Oswald,  hiding  himself  in  his  carriage,  mur- 
mured, "  Corinne  at  my  feet !  Corinne,  in 
whose  path  I  ought  to  kneel !  Have  I  de- 
served this  1  Do  you  suspect  me  of  such  un- 
worthy pride  ?"  "  No,  no,"  she  said ;  "  but  I 
was  suddenly  seized  with  the  respect  a  wo- 
man always  feels  for  him  she  loves.  To  us, 
indeed,  is  external  deference  most  directed  ; 
but  in  truth,  in  nature,  it  is  the  woman  who 
reveres  the  being  capable  of  defending  her." 

"  Yes,  I  will  be  thy  defender,  to  the  last 
hour  of  my  life  !"  he  answered.  "  Heaven 
be  my  witness,  such  a  genius  shall  not  in  vain 
seek  refuge  in  the  harbor  of  my  love !" 
'  Alas !"  she  sighed,  "  that  love  is  all  I  need  ; 
and  what  promise  can  secure  it  to  me  !  No 
matter.  I  feel  that  you  love  me  now  better 
than  ever :  let  us  not  disturb  this  return  of 
affection."  "  Return  !"  interrupted  Oswald. 
"  I  cannot  retract  the  expression  ;  but  let  us 
not  seek  to  explain  it ;"  and  she  made  a  gen- 
tle sign  for  Nelvil  to  be  silent. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


FOE  two  days  they  proceeded  on  the  shore 
of  the  Adriatic  :  but  this-  sea,  on  the  Romag- 
i  nan  side,  has  not  the  effect  of  the  ocean,  nor 
I  even  of  the  Mediterranean.     The  high  road 
1  winds  close  to  its  waves,  and  grass  grows  on 
its  banks  :  it  is  not  thus  that  we  would  repre- 
sent the  mighty  realm  of  tempests.    At  Rimini 
and  Cesena,  you  quit  the  classic  scenes  of 
history  ;  their  latest  remembrancer  is  the  Ru- 
bicon, which  Caesar  passed,  to  become  the  lord 
of  ftome.     Not  far  from  hence  is  the  republic 
'>*'  -St.  Marino,  the  last  weak  vestige  of  lil  erty, 
besides  the  spot  on  which  was  resolved  the 


destruction  of  the  world's  chief  republic.  By 
degrees,  you  now  advance  towards  a  country 
very  opposite  in  aspect  to  the  Papal  state. 
Bologna,  Lombardy,  the  environs  of  Ferrara 
and  Ravigo,  are  remarkable  for  beauty  and 
cultivation — how  unlike  the  poetic  barrenness 
and  decay  that  announce  an  approach  to  Rome, 
and  tell  of  the  terrible  events  that  have  oc- 
curred there  ! 

You  then  quit  what  Sabran  calls  "  black 
pines,  the  summer's  mourning,  but  the  winter's 
bravery,"  and  the  co'nical  cypresses  that  re- 
mind one  of  obelisks,  mountains,  and  the  sea. 
Nature,  like  the  traveller,  now  parts  from  the 
southern  rays.  At  first,  the  oranges  are  found 
no  longer  in  the  open  air, — they  are  succeeded 
by  olives,  whose  pale  and  tender  foliage  might 
suit  the  bowers  of  the  Elysian  fields.  Further 
on,  even  the  olive  disappears. 

On  entering  Bologna's  smiling  plain,  the 
vines  garland  the  elms  together,  and  the  whole 
land  is  decked  as  for  a  festival.  Corinne  was 
sensible  of  the  contrast  between  her  present 
state  of  mind  and  the  resplendent  scene  she 
now  beheld.  "Ah,  Oswald,"  she  sighed, 
"  ought  nature  to  spread  such  images  of  hap- 
piness before  two  friends  perhaps  about  to 
lose  each  other  ?"  "  No,  Corinne  !  never  ! 
each  day  I  feel  less  able  to  resign  thee  :  that 
untiring  gentleness  unites  the  charm  of  habit 
with  the  love  I  bear  thee.  One  lives  as  con- 
tentedly with  you  as  if  you  were  not  the  finest 
genius  in  the  world,  or,  rather,  because  you 
'are  so;  for  real  superiority  confers  a  perfect 
goodness,  that  makes  one's  peace  with  one's 
self  and  all  the  world.  What  angry  thoughts 
can  live  in  such  a  presence  1"  They  arrived 
at  Ferrara,  one  of  the  saddest  towns  in  Italy, 
vast  and  deserted.  The  few  inhabitants  found 
there,  at  distant  intervals,  loiter  on  slowly,  as 
if  secure  of  time  for  all  they  have  to  do.  It 
is  hard  to  conceive  this  the  scene  of  that  gay 
court  sung  both  by  Tasso  and  Ariosto ;  yet 
still  are  shown  their  manuscripts,  with  that 
also  of  the  Pastor  Fido.  Ariosto  knew  how 
to  live  at  ease  here,  amid  courtiers  ;  but  the 
dungeon  is  yet  to  be  seen  wherein  they  dared 
confine  Tasso  as  a  maniac.  It  is  sad  to  read 
the  various  letters  which  he  wrote  asking  the 
death  it  was  so  long  ere  he  obtained.  Tasso 
was  so  peculiarly  organized,  that  his  talent 
became  its  owner's  formidable  foe.  His  genius 
dissected  his  own  heart.  He  could  not  so 
have  read  the  secrets  of  the  soul  if  he  had 
felt  less  sorrow.  The  man  ivho  has  not  suffer- 
ed, says  a  prophet,  what  does  he  know  ?  In 
some  respects,  Corinne  resembled  him.  She 
was  more  cheerful  and  more  versatile,  but  her 
imagination  required  extreme  government ;  for 
assuaging  any  grief,'  it  lent  each  pang  fresh 
power..  Nelvil  deceived  himself  if  he  be- 


122 


CORINNE ;  OR,  ITALY. 


lieved  her  brilliant  faculties  could  give  her 
means  of  happiness  apart  from  her  affections. 
When  genius  is  united  with  true  feeling,  our 
talents  multiply  our  woes.  -We  analyse,  we 
make  discoveries,  and,  the  heart's  urn  of  tears 
being  exhaustless,  the  more  we  think  the  more 
we  feel. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

THEY  embarked  for  Venice  on  the  Brenta. 
At  each  side  they  beheld  its  palaces,  grand 
but  dilapidated,  like  all  Italian  magnificence. 
They  are  too  wildly  ornamented  to  remind  us 
of  the  antique  :  Venetian  architecture  betrays 
a  commerce  with  the  East :  there  is  a  blending 
of  the  Gothic  and  Moresco  which  takes  the  eye, 
I  though  it  oifends  the  taste.  The  poplar,  regu- 
lar almost  as  architecture  itself,  borders  the 
I  canals.  The  t>ky's  bright  blue  sets  off  the 
jj  splendid  verdure  of  the  country,  which  owes 
its  green  to  the  abundant  waters.  Nature 
seems  to  wear  these  two  colors  in  mere  co- 
quetry ;  and  the  vague  beauty  of  the  south  is 
found  no  more.  Venice  astonishes  more  than 
it  pleases  at  first  sight :  it  looks  like  a  city 
under  water  ;  and  it  requires  reflection  to  ad- 
mire the  genius  which  disputed  this  space 
with  the  sea.  Naples  is  built  like  an  amphi- 
theatre, but,  Venice  being  flat,  its  steeples  ap- 
pear like  the  masts  of  a  vessel,  immovably 
anchored.  In  entering  the  city,  one  takes 
leave  of  vegetation ;  one  sees  not  even  a  fly 
there  :  all  animals  are  banished  ;  man  alone 
remains  to  battle  with  the  waves.  In  a  city 
whose  streets  are  all  canals,  the  silence  is  pro- 
found— the  dash  of  oars  its  only  interruption. 
You  cannot  fancy  yourself  in  the  country,  for 
you  see  no  trees ;  nor  in  a  town,  for  you  hear 
no  bustle  ;  nor  even  on  board  ship,  for  you  make 
no  way ;  but  in  a  place  which  storms  would 
convert  into  a  prison, — for  there  are  times 
when  you  cannot  leave  the  city,  nor  even  your 
own  house. 

Many  men  in  Venice  never  went  from  one 
quarter  to  another, — never  beheld  St.  Mark's, 
— a  horse  or  a  tree  were  actual  miracles  to 
them.  The  black  gondolas  glide  along  like 
biers  or  cradles,  the  last  and  the  fipst  abode  of 
human  kind.  At  night,  their  dark  color  ren- 
ders them  invisible,  and  they  are  only  traced 
by  the  glimmer  of  the  lights  they  carry — one 
might  £all  them  phantoms,  guided  by  faint 
stars.  In  this  abode,  all  is  mysterious — the 
government,  the  habits,  love  itself.  Doubt- 


ess  the  heart  and  reason  find  much  food  when 
they  can  penetrate  this  secrecy,  but  stranerers 
always  feel  the  first  impression  singularly  sad.  j! 

Corinne,  who  was  a  believer  in  presenti- 
ments, and  now  made  presages  of  everything, 
said  to  Nelvil,  "  Is  not  the  melancholy  that  I 
feel  on  entering  this  place  a  proof  that  some 
great  misfortune  will  befall  me  here  ?"  As 
she  said  this,  she  heard  three  reports  of  can- 
non, from  one  pf  the  islands  of  the  Lagune  : 
she  started,  and  inquired  the  cause  of  a  gon- 
dolier. "  It  is  a  woman  taking  the  veil,"  he 
said,  "  at  one  of  those  convents  in  the  midst 
of  the  sea.  The  custom  here  is,  that  the  mo- 
ment such  vow  is  uttered,  the  female  throws 
the  flowers  she  wore  during  the  ceremony 
behind  her,  as  a  sign  of  her  resigning  the 
world,  and  the  cannon  you  have  just  heard 
announce  this  event."  Corinne  shuddered. 
Oswald  felt  her  hand  grow  cold  in  his,  and 
saw  a  death-like  pallor  overspread  her  fac,e. 
"  My  life  !"  he  cried,  "  why  give  this  impor- 
tance to  so  simple  a  chance/?"  "It  is  not 
simple,"  she  replied.  "  I,  too,  have  thrown 
the  flowers  of  youth  behind  me."  "How. 
when  I  love  thee  more  than  ever  T  when  my 
whole  soul  is  thine  ]"  "  The  thunders  of  war," 
she  continued,  "  elsewhere  devoted  to  victory 
or  death,  here  celebrate  the  obscure  sacrifice 
of  a  maiden — an  innocent  employment  for  the 
arms  that  shake  the  world  with  terror — a  so- 
lemn message  from  a  resigned  woman  to  V.ose 
of  her  sisters  who  still  contend  with  fate  ''  ' 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  power  of  the  Venetian  government, 
during  its  latter  years,   has  almost  entirely 
consisted  in  the  empire  of  habit  and  imagina- 
tion.    It  once  was  formidably  daring,  it  has 
become  lenient  and  timorous  •  hate  of  its  past 
potency  is  easily  revived,  and  easily  sujdued, 
by  the* thought  that  its  might  is  over.     The 
aristocracy  woo  the  favor  of  the  peopie.  and 
yet  by  a  kind  of  despotism,  since  thev  rai'ner 
amuse   than   enlighten   them ;    an   agreeaaie 
state   enough,    while   the   common  hero  are  ; 
afforded  no  pleasures  that  can  brutify  cne'.i 
minds,  while  the  government  watches  over  us 
subjects  like  a  sultan  over  his  harern,  foroiu- 
ding  them  to  meddle  with  politics,  or  presume  . 
to  form  any  judgment  of  existing  authormb*  I 
but  allowing  them  sufficient  diversion,  ana  not  j 
a  little  glory.     The  spoils  of  Consranunoo  e  j 
enrich  the  churches  ;  the  standards  ot'  Cyprua  ] 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


123 


and  Candia  float  over  the  Piazza  ;  the  Corin- 
thian horses  delight  the  eye  ;  and  the  winged 
lion  of  St.  Mark's  appears  the  type  of  fame. 
The  situation  of  the  city  rendering  agriculture 
and  the  chase  impossible,  nothing  is  left  for 
the  Venetians  but  dissipation.  Their  dialect 
is  soft  and  light  as  a  zephyr.  One  can  hardly 
conceive  how  the  people  who  resisted  the 
league  of  Cambray  should  speak  so  flexible  a 
tongue  :  it  is  charming  while  expressive  of 
graceful  pleasantry,  but  suits  not  graver 
themes ;  verses  on  death,  for  instance, 
breathed  in  these  delicate  and  almost  infantine 
accents,  sound  more  like  the  descriptions  of 
poetic  fable. 

The  Venetians  are  the  most  intelligent  men 
in  Italy  ;  they  think  more  deeply,  though  with 
less  ardent  fancies  than  their  southern  coun- 
trymen ;  yet,  for  the  most  part,  the  women, 
though  very  agreeable,  have  acquired  a  senti- 
mentality of  language,  which,  without  re- 
straining their  morals,  merely  lends  their 
gallantry  an  air  of  affectation.  There  is  more 
vanity,  as  there  is  more  society,  here,  than  in 
the  rest  of  Italy.  Where  applause  is  quick 
and  frequent,  conceit  calculates  all  debts  in- 
stantaneously ;  knows  what  success  is  owed, 
and  claims  its  due,  without  giving  a  minute's 
credit.  Still,  much  originality  may  be  found 
in  Venice.  Ladies  of  the  highest  rank  receive 
visits  in  the  cafes,  and  this  strange  confusion 
prevents  their  salons  becoming  the  arenas  of 
serious  love.  There  yet  remain  here  some 
anc.ient  usages  that  evince  a  respect  for  their 
forefathers,  and  a  certain  youth  of  heart  which 
tires  not  of  the  past,  nor  shrinks  from  melting 
recollections.  The  sight  of  the  city  itself  is 
always  sufficient  to  awaken  a  host  of  memo- 
ries. The  Piazza  is  crowded  with  blue  tents, 
beneath  which  rest  Turks,  Greeks,  and  Ar- 
menians, who  sometimes  also  loll  carelessly 
in  open  boats,  with  stands  of  flowers  at  their 
feet.  St.  Mark's,  too,  looks  rather  like  a 
mosque  than  a  Christian  temple ;  and  its  vi- 
cinity gives  a  true  idea  of  the  oriental  indo- 
lence with  which  life  is  spent  here,  in  drinking 
sherbet,  and  smoking  perfumed  pipes. 

Men  and  women  of  quality  never  leave  their 
houses,  except  in  black  mantles  ;  often  black 
gondolas,  for  the  system  of  equality  at  Venice 
is  chiefly  confined  to  externals,  are  winged 
along  by  rowers  clad  in  white,  with  rose-color 
sashes,  as  if  holiday  array  were  abandoned  to 
the  vulgar,  while  the  nobility  kept  up  a  vow 
of  perpetual  mourning.  In  most  European 
towns,  writers  are  obliged  carefully  to  avoid 
depicting  the  daily  routine  ;  for  our  customs, 
even  in  luxury,  are  rarely  poetic  ;  but  in  Ve- 
nice nothing  appears  coarse  ;  the  canals,  the 
boats,  make  pictures  of  the  commonest  events 
in  life. 


On  the  quay  of  the  galleys  you  constantly 
encounter  puppet-shows,  mountebanks,  and' 
story-tellers  ;  the  last  are  worthy  of  remark 
It  is  usually  some  episode  from  Tasso  or 
Ariosto,  whicri  they  relate  in  prose,  to  the 
great  admiration  of  their  hearers,  who  sit 
round  the  speaker  half-clad,  and  motionless 
with  'curiosity ;  from  time  to  time  they  pur- 
chase glasses  of  water,  as  wine  is  bought 
elsewhere,  and  this  refreshment  is  all  they 
take  for  hours,  so  strongly  are  their  minds 
interested.  The  narrator  uses  the  most  ani- 
mating gestures;  his  voice  is  raised;  he  frets 
himself ;  he  grows  pathetic ;  and  yet  one 
sees,  all  the  while,  that  at  heart  he  is  perfectly 
unmoved.  One  might  say  to  him,  as  did 
Sappho  to  the  Circean  nymph;  who,  in  perfect 
sobriety,  was  assuming  fury, — "  Bacchante — 
who  art  not  drunk — what  wouldst  thou  with 
me  1"  Yet  the  lively  pantomime  of  the  south 
does  not  appear  quite  artificial :  it  is  a  singu- 
lar habit  handed  down  from  the  Romans,  and 
springing  from  a  quick,  brilliant  and  poetic 
disposition. 

A  people  so  enslaved  by  pleasure  may  soon 
be  alarmed  by  the  dream  of  power  in  which 
the  Venetian  government  is  veiled.  Never 
are  soldiers  seen  there.  If  even  a  drummer 
appears  in  their  comedies  they  are  all  asto- 
nishment ;  yet  a  state  inquisitor  needs  but 
show  himself  to  restore  order  among  thirty 
thousand  people,  assembled  for  a  public  fete. 
It  were  well  if  this  influence  was  derived  from 
a  respect  for  the  laws ;  but  it  is  fortified  by 
terror  of  the  secret  means  which  may  still  be 
used  to  preserve  the  peace.  The  prisons  are 
in  the  very  palace  of  the  Doge,  above  and 
below  his  apartments.  The  Lion's  Mouth, 
into  which  all  denunciations  are  thrown,  is 
also  here  ;  the  hall  of  trial  is  hung  with  black, 
and  makes  judgment  appear  anticipating  con- 
demnation. The  Bridge  of  Sighs  leads  from 
the  palace  to  the  state  prison.  In  passing  the 
canal  how  oft  were  heard  the  cries  of  "  Jus- 
tice !"  "  Mercy  !"  in  voices  that  could  be  no 
longer  recognized  !  When  a  state  criminal 
was  sentenced,  a  bark  removed  him  in  the 
night,  by  a  little  gate  that  opens  on  the  water ; 
he  was  taken  some  distance  from  the  city,  to 
a  part  of  the  Lagune  where  fishing  is  prohi- 
bited, and  there  drowned  :  thus  secrecy  is 
perpetuated,  even  after  death,  not  leaving  the 
unhappy  wretch  a  hope  that  his  remains  may 
inform  those  who  loved  him  that  he  suffered, 
and  is  no  more.  When  Lord  Nelvil  and  Co- 
rinne  visited  Venice,  these  executions  had  not 
taken  place  for  nearly  a  century,  but  sufficient 
mystery  still  existed ;  and  though  Oswald 
was  the  last  man  to  interfere  with  the  politics 
of  foreign  lands,  he  felt  oppressed  by  this  ar- 
bitrary power,  from  which  there  was  no  ai>- 


124 


CORINNE;  OR,  ITALY. 


peal,  that  seemed  to  hang  over  every  head  in 
Venice. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  You  must  not,"  said  Corinne,  "  give  way 
merely  to  the  gloomy  impressions  which  these 
silent  proceedings  have  created  ;  you  ought 
also  to  observe  the  great  qualities  of  this 
senate,  which  makes  Venice  a  republic  for 
nobles,  and  formerly  inspired  that  aristocratic 
grandeur,  the  result  of  freedom,  even  though 
concentrated  in  the  few.  You  will  find  them 
severe  on  one  another  ;  at  least  establishing, 
in  their  own  breasts,  the  rights  and  virtues 
that  should  belong  to  all.  You  will  see  them 
as  paternal  towards  their  subjects  as  they  can 
be,  while  merely  considering  that  class  of  men 
with  reference  to  physical  prosperity.  You 
will  detect  a  great  pride  in  the  country  which 
is  their  property,  and  an  art  of  endearing  it 
even  to  the  people,  whom  they  allow  so  few 
actual  possessions  there." 

Corinne  and  Oswald  visited  the  hall  where 
the  great  council  was  assembled.  It  is  hung 
with  portraits  of  the  Doges :  on  the  space 
which  would  have  been  occupied  by  that  of 
Faliero,  who  was  beheaded  as  a  traitor,  is 
painted  a  black  curtain,  whereon  is  written 
the  date  and  manner  of  his  death.*  The  re- 
gal magnificence  of  the  other  pictures  adds  to 
the  effect  of  this  ghastly  pall.  There  is  also 
a  representation  of  the  Last  Judgment ;  ano- 
ther of  the  powerful  emperor,  Frederic  Bar- 
barossa,  humbling  himself  to  the  Venetian 
senate.  It  was  a  fine  idea  thus  to  unite  all 
that  can  exalt  pride  upon  earth,  and  bend  it 
before  Heaven. 

'  They  proceeded  to  the  arsenal :  before  its 
gates  are  two  Grecian  lions,  brought  from 
Athens,  to  become  the  guardians  of  Venetian 
power.  Motionless  guardians,  that  defend  but 
what  they  respect.  This  repository  is  full  of 
marine  trophies.  The  famous  ceremony  of 
the  doge's  marriage  with  the  Adriatic,  in  fact, 
all  the  institutions,  here  attest  their  gratitude 
to  the  sea  :  in  this  respect  they  resemble  the 
English,  and  Nelvil  strongly  felt  the  similarity. 
Corinne  now  led  him  to  the  tower  called  the 
Steeple  of  St.  Mark's,  though  some  paces 
from  the  church.  Thence  is  seen  the  whole 
city  of  the  waves,  and  J,he  huge  embankment 


*  No  date  is  seen.  The  inscription  is  simply  this:  "Hie 
•iT  LOCUS  MARINI  FALIKTO  DECAPITATI  PRO  CRIMINI- 
»srs."— Am.  Ed 


which  defends  it  from  inundation.  The  coasts 
of  Istria  and  Dalmatia  are  in-  the  distance. 
"  Behind  the  clouds,  on  this  side,  lies  Greece," 
said  Corinne  :  "  is  not  that  thought  enough  to 
stir  the  heart  1  There  still  are  men  of  lively, 
ardent  characters,  victims  to  fate  ;  yet  destined, 
perhaps,  some  day,  to  resuscitate  the  ashes  of 
their  sires.  It  is  always  something  for  a  land 
to  have  been  great :  its  natives  at  least  blush 
beneath  degradation ;  while,  in  a  country 
never  consecrated  to  fame,  the  inhabitants  do 
not  even  suspect  that  there  can  be  a  nobler 
destiny  than  the  obscure  servility  bequeathed 
to  them  by  their  fathers.  That  Dalmatia, 
whose  shores  we  distinguish  from  here,"  con- 
tinued Corinne,  "  which  was  of  yore  occupied 
by  so  warlike  a  race,  still  preserves  something 
of  the  savage  character.  Its  natives  are  so 
little  aware  of  the  changes  wrought  by  fifteen 
centuries,  that  they  still  deem  the  Romans 
'  all  powerful  ;'  yet  they  betray  more  modern 
knowledge-  by  calling  the  English  '  the  war- 
riors of  the  sea,'  because  you  have  so  often 
landed  in  their  ports  ;  but  they  know  nothing 
about  the  rest  of  the  world.  I  love  all  realms 
where,  in  the  mariners,  customs,  language, 
something  original  is  left.  Civilized  life  is°so 
monotonous  ;  you  know  its  secrets  in  so  short 
a  time  ;  I  have  already  lived  long  enough  for 
that."  "  Living  with  you,"  said  Nelvil,  "  can 
we  ever  behold  the  end  of  new  thoughts  and 
sensations '?"  "  God  grant  that  such  may 
prove  exhaustless  !"  she  replied.  "  But  let 
us  give  one  moment  more  to  Dalmatia,"  con- 
tinued Corinne  ;  "  when  we  descend  from  this 
height  we  shall  still  see  the  uncertain  lines 
which  mark  that  land,  as  indistinctly  as  a  ten- 
der recollection  in  the  memory  of  man. 
There  are  improvisatores  among1  the  Dalma- 
tians as  among  the  savages  ;  they  were  found, 
too,  with  the  Grecians,  and  almost  always  ex- 
ist where  there  is  much  imagination,  and  little 
vanity.  Natural  talent  turns  rather  to  epi- 
gram, in  countries  where  a  fear  of  ridicule 
makes  every  man  anxious  to  be  the  first  who 
secures  that  weapon  ;  but  people  thrown  much 
with  Nature  feel  a  reverence  for  her  that 
greatly  nurtures  fancy.  '  Caverns  are  sacred,' 
say  the  Dalmatians,  doubtless  thus  express- 
ing an  indefinite  terror  of  the  old  earth's  se- 
crets. Their  poetry,  Southerns  though  they 
be,  resembles  Ossian's  ;  but  there  are  only 
two  ways  of  feeling  the  charms  of  nature. 
Men  either  animate  or  deify  them,  as  did  the 
ancients,  beneath  a  thousand  brilliant  shapes, 
or,  like  the  Scottish  bards,  yield  to  the  melan- 
choly fear  inspired  by  the  unknown.  Since  I 
met  you,  Oswald,  this  last  manner  has  pleased 
me.  Formerly  I  had  vivacious  hope  enough 
to  prefer  a  fearless  enjoyment  of  smiling  im- 
agery." "  It  is  I,  then,"  said  Nelvil,  "  who 


CORINNE;  OR,  ITALY. 


125 


have  withered  the  fair  ideal,  to  which  I  owed 
the  richest  pleasures  of  my  life."  "  No,  you 
are  not  in  fault,  hut  my  own  passion.  Talent 
requires  internal  freedom,  such  as  true  love 
destroys."  "  Ah  !  if  you  mean  that  your  ge- 
nius may  lose  its  voice,  and  your  heart  speak 

but  for  me "     He  could  not  proceed,  the 

words  promised  more  to  his  mind  than  he 
dared  utter.  Corinne  guessed  this,  and  would 
not  answer,  lest  she  should  disturb  the  delight- 
ful emotion  she  experienced.  She  felt  her- 
self beloved,  and,  used  to  living  in  a  country 
where  men  sacrifice  all  for  love,  she  was 
easily  persuaded  that  Nelvil  could  not  leave 
her.  At  once  ardent  and  indolent,  she  en- 
joyed the  moments  as  they  came,  and  deemed 
a  danger  past  which  was  no  longer  at  hand. 
She  lived  as  many  others  do,  who  have  been 
long  menaced  by  the  same  misfortune,  and 
think  it  will  never  happen,  merely  because  it 
has  not  done  so  yet. 


The  air  of  Venice,  and  the  life  led  there, 
is  singularly  calculated  for  lulling  the  mind 
into  security  :  the  very  boats,  peacefully  rock- 
ing to  and  fro,  induce  a  languid  reverie  ;  now 
and  then  a  gondolier  on  the  Rialto  sings  a 
stanza  from  Tasso  ;  one  of  his  fellows  an- 
swer^ him,  by  the  next  verse,  from  the  ex- 
tremity of  the  canal.  The  very  antique  mu- 
sic they  employ  is  like  church  psalmody,  and 
monotonous  enough  when  near  :  but,  on  the 
evening  breeze,  it  floats  over  the  waters  like 
the  last  beams  of  the  sun  ;  and,  aided  by  the 
sentiment  it  expresses,  in  such  a  scene,  it 
cannot  be  heard  without  a  gentle  pensiveness. 
Oswald  and  Corinne  passed  whole  hours  upon 
the  waters,  reclining  side  by  side  ;  sometimes 
a  word  was  uttered,  but  not  often  ;  holding 
each  other's  hands,  they  yielded  themselves 
in  silence  to  the  formless  dreams  inspired  by 
love  and  nature. 


BOOK     XVI. 

PARTING       AND       ABSENCE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

As  soon  as  Corinne's  arrival  was  known  in 
Venice,  it  excited  the  greatest  curiosity. 
When  she  went  to  a  cafe  in  the  piazza  of  St. 
Mark,  its  galleries  were  crowded,  for  a  mo- 
ment's glimpse  at  her  ;  and  ail  classes  of  so- 
ciety sought  her  with  eager  haste.  She  had 
once  loved  to  produce  this  effect  wherever 
she  appeared,  and  naturally  confessed  that 
admiration  had  many  charms  for  her.  Genius 
inspires  this  thirst  for  fame  :  there  is  no  bless- 
ing undesired  by  those  to  whom  Heaven  gave 
the  means  of  winning  it.  Yet  in  her  present 
situation  she  dreaded  everything  in  opposition 
with  the  domestic  habits  so  dear  to  Nelvil. 

Corinne  was  blind  to  her  own  welfare,  in 
attaching  herself  to  a  man  likely  rather  to  re- 
press than  to  excite  her  talents  ;  but  it  is  easy 
to  conceive  why  a  woman,  occupied  by  litera- 
ture and  the  arts,  should  love  the  tastes  that 
differed  from  her  own.  One  is  so  often  weary 
of  one's  self,  that  a  resemblance  of  that  self 
would  never  tempt  affection,  which  requires 
a  harmony  of  sentiment,  but  a  contrast  of 
character  ;  many  sympathies,  but  not  unva- 
ried congeniality.  Nelvil  was  supremely 


blessed  with  this  double  charm.  His  gentle 
ease  and  gracious  manner  could  never  sate, 
because  his  liability  to  clouds  and  storms  kept 
up  a  constant  interest.  Although  the  depth 
and  extent  of  his  acquirements  fitted  him  for 
any  life,  his  political  opinions  and  military  bias 
inclined  him  rather  to  a  career  of  arms  than 
one  of  letters.  He  thought  that  action  was 
always  more  poetical  than  poetry  itself.  He 
was  superior  to  the  success  of  his  own  mind, 
and  spoke  of  it  with  much  indifference.  Co- 
rinne strove  to  please  him  by  imitating  this 
carelessness  of  literary  glory  ;  in  order  to 
grow  more  like  the  retiring  females  for  whom 
Erglish  womanhood  offers  the  best  model. 
Yet  the  homage  she  received  at  Venice  gave 
Oswald  none  but  agreeable  sensations.  There 
was  so  much  coFdial  good  breeding  in  the  re- 
ception she  met  with,  the  Venetians  expressed 
the  pleasure  her  conversation  afforded  them 
with  such  vivacity,  that  Oswald  felt  proud  of 
being  dear  to  one  so  universally  admired. 
He  was  no  longer  jealous  of  her  celebrity, 
certain  that  she  prized  him  far  ajjove  it ;  and 
his  own  love  increased  by  every  tribute  she 
elicited.  He  forgot  England,  and  revelled  in 
the  Italian  heedlessness  of  days  to  come. 


COEINNE;    OR,  ITALY. 


Corinr.e  perceived  this  change  ;  and  her  im- 
prudent heart  welcomed  it,  as  if  it  was  to  last 
for  ever. 

Italian  is  the  only  tongue  vwhose  dialects 
are  almost  languages  of  themselves.  In  that 
of  each  state  books  might  be  written  distinct 
from  the  standard  Itiili&n,  though  only  the 
Neapolitan,  Sicilian,  and  Venetian  dialects 
have  yet  the  hor.or  of  being  acknowledged  ; 
and  that  of  Venice  as  the  most  original,  most, 
charming  of  all.  Corinne  pronounced  it 
charmingly,  and  the  manner  in  which  she 
sung  some  lively  barcaroles  proved  that  she 
could  act  comedy  as  well  as  tragedy.  She 
was  pressed  to  take  a  part  in  an  opera 
which  some  of  her  new  friends  intended  play- 
ing the  next  week.  Since  she  had  loved 
Oswald  she  concealed  this  talent  from  him, 
not  feeling  sufficient  peace  of  mind  for  its 
exercise,  or,  at  other  times,  fearing  that  any 
.outbreak  of  high  spirits  might  be  followed  by 
misfortune  ;  but  now,  with  unwonted  confi- 
dence, she  consented,  as  he,  too,  joined  in  the 
request ;  and  it  was  agreed  that  she  should 
perform  in  a  piece,  like  most  of  Gozzi's,  com- 
posed of  the  most  diverting  fairy  extrava- 
gances. (32.)  Truffaldin  and  Pantaloon,  in 
these  burlesques,  oflen  jostle  the  greatest 
nionarchs  of  the  earth.  The  marvellous  fur- 
nishes them  with  jests,  which,  from  their  very 
order,  cannot  approach  to  low  vulgarity.  The 
Child  of  the  Air,  or  Semiramis  in  her  Youth, 
is  a  coquette,  endowed  by  the  celestials  and 
infernals  to  subjugate  the  world ;  bred  in  a 
desert,  like  a  savage,  cunning  as  a  sorceress, 
and  imperious  as  a  queen,  she  unites  natural 
wildness  with  premeditated  grace,  and  a  war- 
rior's courage  with  the  frivolity  of  a  woman. 
The  character  demands  a  fund  of  fanciful 
drollery,  which  but  the  inspiration  of  a  moment 
can  bring  to  light. 


CHAPTER  II. 

FATE  sometimes  has  its  own  strange  cruel 
sport,  repulsing  our  presuming  familiarity. 
Oft,  when  we  yield  to  hope,  calculate  on  suc- 
cess, and  trifle  with  our  destiny,  the  sable 
thread  is  blending  with  its  tissue,  and  the  weird 
sisters  dash  down  the  airy  fabrics  we  have 
reared. 

It  was  on  .the  17th  of  November  that  Co- 
rinne arose  enchanted  with  the  anticipation  of 
the  evening  performance.  For  the  first  act 
she  chose  a  very  picturesque  costume.  Her 


hair,  though  dishevelled,  was  arranged  with  an 
evident  design  of  pleasing  ;  her  light  fantastic 
garb  gave  her  noble  form  a  most  mischiev- 
ously attractive  air.  She  reached  the  palace 
where  she  was  to  play.  Every  one  but 
Oswald  had  arrived.  She  deferred  the  per- 
formance as  long  as  possible,  and  began  to  be 
uneasy  at  his  absence  ;  when  she  came  on  the 
stage,  however,  she  perceived  him,  though  he 
sat  in  a  remote  part  of  the  hall,  and  the  pain 
of  having  waited  redoubled  her  joy.  She  was 
as  inspired  by  gaiety  as  she  had  been  at  the 
Capitol  by  enthusiasm.  This  drama  blends 
song  with  speech,  and  even  gives  opportuni- 
ties for  extempore  dialogue,  of  which  Corinne 
availed  herself  to  render  the  scene  more  ani- 
mated. She  sang  the  luffa  airs  with  peculiar 
elegance.  Her  gestures  were  at  once  comic 
and  dignified.  She  extorted  laughter  without 
ceasing  to  be  imposing.  Her  talents,  like  her 
part,  queened  it  over  actors  and  spectators, 
pleasantly  bantering  both  parties.  Ah  !  who 
would  not  have  wept  over  such  a  sight,  could 
they  have  known  that  this  bright  armor  but 
drew  down  the  lightning,  that  this  triumphant 
mirth  would  soon  give  place  to  bitter  desola- 
tion ?  The  applause  was  so  continual,  so 
judicious,  that  the  rapture  of  the  audience  in- 
fected Corinne  with  that  kind  of  delirium 
which  pours  a  lethe  over  the  past,  and  bids 
the  future  seem  unclouded.  Oswald  had 
seen  her  represent  the  deepest  wo,  at  a  time 
when  he  still  hoped  to  make  her  happy  ;  he 
now  beheld  her  breathing  stainless  joy,  just 
as  he  had  received  tidings  that  might  prove 
fatal  to  them  both.  Oft  did  he  wish  to  take 
her  from  this  scene  of  rash  happiness,  yet  felt 
a  sad  pleasure  in  once  more  beholding  that 
lovely  countenance  bedecked  in  smiles. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  piece  she  appeared 
arrayed  as  an  Amazonian  queen,  commanding 
men,  almost  the  elements,  by  that  reliance  on 
her  charms  which  beauty  maypreserve,  un- 
less she  loves  ;  then,  then,  no  gift  of  nature 
or  of  fortune  can  re-assure  her  spirit.  But 
this  crowned  coquette,  this  fairy  queen,  mira- 
culously blending  anger  with  wit,  careless- 
ness with  ambition,  and  conceit  with  despot- 
ism, seemed  to  rule  over  fate  as  over  hearts  ; 
and  when  she  ascended  her  throne  she  exacted 
the  submission  of  her  subjects  with  a  smile, 
arch  as  it  was  arrogant.  This  was,  perhaps, 
the  moment  of  her  life,  from  which  both  grief 
and  fear  seemed  farthest  banished  ;  when  sud- 
denly she  saw  her  lover  bow  his  face  on  his 
hands  to  hide  his  tears.  She  trembled,  and 
the  curtain  had  not  quite  fallen,  when,  leaving 
her  already  hated  throne,  she  rushed  into  the 
nes^  apartment.  Thither  he  followed  her  : 
and  when  she  marked  his  paleness,  she  was 
seized  with  such  alarm,  that  she  was  forced  to  |i 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


127 


lean  against  the  wall  for  support.  "  Oswald," 
she  said,  "  my  God  !  what  has  happened  ?" 
"  I  must  start  for  England  to-night,"  he  said, 
forgetting  that  he  ought  not  thus  to  have  ex- 
posed her  iee!i::js.  "  Xo,  no  !"  she  cried, 
clinging  to  him  distractedly;  "you  cannot 
plunge  me  into  such  despair.  How  have  I 
merited  it?  or — or — you  mean  that  you  will 
take  me  with  you  1"  "  Let  us  leave  this  cruel 
crowd,"  he  said  :  "  come  with  me,  Corinne." 
She  followed  him,  not  understanding  aught 
addressed  to  her,  answering  at  random;  her 
gait  and  look  so  changed,  that  every  one  be- 
lieved her  struck  with  sudden  illness. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHEN  they  were  in  the  gondola,  Corinne, 
wild  with  anguish,  said  to  Lord  Nelvil, — 
"  What  you  have  made  me  feel  is  worse  than 
death  :  be  generous  :  throw  me  into  these 
waves,  that  I  may  lose  the  sense  which  mad- 
dens me.  Oswald,  be  brave  :  I  have  seen 
you  do  thing's  that  required  more  courage." 
"  Hold,  hold  !"  he  cried,  "  if  you  would  not 
drive  me  to  suicide.  Hear  me,  when  we 
have  reached  your  house,  and  then  pronounce 
our  fate.  In  the  name  of  Heaven  be  calm." 
There  was  such  misery  in  his  accents  that 
*he  was  silent ;  but  trembled  so  violently, 
that  she  could  hardly  walk  up  the  stairs  to 
her  apartment.  There  she  tore  off  her  orna- 
ments in  dismay ;  and  as  Lord  Nelvil  saw  her 
in  this  state,  a  few  moments  since  so  brilliant, 
he  sank  upon  a  seat  in  tears.  "  Am  I  a  bar- 
barian ?"  he  cried.  "  Corinne  !  Just  Heaven  ! 
Corinne  !  do  you  not  think  me  so  ?"  "  No," 
she  said,  "  no,  I  cannot.  Have  you  not  still 
that  look  which  every  day  gives  me  fresh 
comfort  ]  Oswald,  you  whose  presence  was 
to  me  a  ray  from  heaven — can  it  be  that  I 
fear  you  1 — that  I  dare  not  lift  my  eyes  towards 
you  ] — that  I  must  fall  before  you  as  before 
my  murderer '?  Oh,  Oswald  !  Oswald  !"  and 
she  threw  herself  at  his  feet  in  supplication. 

"  What  do  I  see,"  he  exclaimed,  raising  her 
vehemently,  "would  you  dishonor  me'?  .Well, 
he  it  so.  My  regiment  embarks  in  a  month. 
I  have  just  received  the  intelligence.  I  will 
remain,  if  you  betray  this  all-commanding 
grief,  bat  I  shall  not  survive  my  shame." 
"  I  ask  you  not  to  stay,"  she  said  ;  ''but  what 
harm  can  I  do  by  following  you  !"  "  We  go 
to  the  West  Indies,  and  no  officer  is  allowed 
to  take  his  wife."  "  Well,  well,  at  least  let 


me  go  to  England  with  you."  "  My  letters 
also  tell  me,"  answered  he,  "  that  reports  con- 
cerning us  are  already  in  the  papers  there ; 
that  your  identity  is  suspected ;  and  your 
family,  excited  by  Lady  Edgarmond,  refuse 
to  meet  or  own  you.  Give  me  time  to  recon- 
cile them,  to  enforce  your  rights  with  your 
step-mother  ;  for  if  I  take  you  thither,  and 
leave  you,  ere  your  name  be  cleared,  you  will 
endure  all  the  severe  opinions  which  I  shall 
not  be  near  to  answer."  "  Then  you  refuse 
me  everything !"  she  said,  and  sunk  insensible 
to  the  earth,  her  forehead  receiving  a  wound 
in  the  fall.  Oswald  shrieked  at  the  sight. 
Theresina  entered  in  extreme  alarm,  and  re- 
stored her  mistress  to  animation  ;  but  when 
Corinne  perceived,  in  an  opposite  mirror,  her 
own  pale  and  disfigured  face, — "  Oswald,"  she 
sighed,  "  it  was  not  thus  I  looked  the  day  you 
met  me  first.  I  wore  the  crown  of  hope  and 
fame,  now  blood  and  dust  are  on  my  brow ; 
yet  it  is  not  for  you  to  despise  the  state  to 
which  you  have  reduced  me.  Others  may, — 
but  you  cannot — you  ought  to  pity  me  for 
loving  thus, — you  must." 

"  Stay,"  he  cried,  "  this  is  too  much ;" 
and  signing  for  Theresina  to  retire,  he  took 
Corinne  in  his  arms,  saying, — "  Do  what  thou 
wilt  with  me.  I  must  submit  to  the  decrees 
of  Heaven.  I  cannot  abandon  you  in  this 
distress,  nor  lead  you  to  England  before  I 
have  secured  you  against  the  insults  of  that 
haughty  woman.  I  will  stay  with  thee.  I 
cannot  depart."  These  words  recalled  Co- 
rinne to  herself,  yet  overwhelmed  her  with 
despair.  She  felt  the  necessity  that  weighed 
upon  her,  and,  with  her  head  reclined,  re- 
mained long  silent.  "  Dearest !"  said  Oswald, 
"  let  me  hear  thy  voice.  I  have  no  other  sup 
port — no  other  guide  now."  "No,"  replied 
Corinne,  "you  must  leave  me,"  and  a  flood  of 
tears  evinced  her  comparative  resignation. 
"  My  love,"  said  Nelvil,  "  I  call  to  witness 
this  portrait  of  my  father,  and  you  best  know 
whether  his  name  is  sacred  to  me.  I  swear 
to  it  that  my  life  is  in  thy  power,  if  needful  to 
thy  happiness.  At  my  return  from  the  islands 
I  will  see  if  I  cannot  restore  thee  to  thy  due 
rank  in  thy  father's  country.  If  I  fail,  I  will 
return  to  Italy,  and  live  or  die  at  thy  feet." 
"  But  the  dangers  you  are  about  to  brave," 
she  rejoined.  "  Fear  not,  I  shall  escape  ;  or, 
if  I  perish,  unknown  as  I  am,  my  memory 
will  survive  in  thy  heart ;  and  when  thou 
hearest  my  name,  thou  mayest  say,  perhaps 
with  tsarful  eyes,  '  I  knew  him  once — he  loved 
me  !'  "  "  Ah,  leave  me  !"  she  cried  ;  "  you 
are  deceived  by  my  apparent  calm  ;  to-mor- 
row, when  the  sun  rises,  and  I  tell  myself,  '  I 
shall  see  him  no  more,'  the  thought  may  kill 
me  ;  happy  if  it  does."  "Why,  Corinne,  do 


128 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


you  fear ;  is  my  solemn  promise  nothing  1 
Can  your  heart  doubt  it  T"  "  No,  I  respect — 
too  much  not  to  believe  you  :  it  would  cost  me 
more  to  abjure  my  admiration  than  my  love. 
I  look  on  you  as  an  angelic  being, — the  purest, 
noblest  that  ever  shone  on  earth.  It  is  not 
alone  your  grace  that  captivates  me,  but  the 
idea  that  so  many  virtues  never  before  united 
in  one  object,  and  that  your  heavenly  look  was 
only  given  to  express  them  all.  Far  be  it 
from  me,  then,  to  doubt  your  word.  I  should 
fly  from  the  human  face  for  ever  if  Lord  Nel- 
vil  could  deceive  ;  but  absence  has  so  many 

perils,   and    that   dreaded   word    adieu " 

"  Never,"  interrupted  he,  "  never  can  Oswald 
bid  you  a  last  adieu — save  from  his  death 
bed  !"  and  he  uttered  this  with  such  emotion, 
that  Corinne,  terrified  for  his  health,  strove  to 
restrain  her  feelings — her  feelings  which  were 
so  much  more  to  be  pitied. 

They  then  began  to  concert  means  of  writ- 
ing, and  to  speak  of  the  certainty  of  rejoining 
each  other.     A  year  was  the  term  fixed.    Os- 
wald sincerely  believed  that   the  expedition 
would  not  be  longer  away.     Some  time  was 
left  them  still,  and  Corinne  trusted  to  regain 
her  strength  ;  but  when  Oswald  told  her  that 
!  the  gondola  would  come  for  him  at  three  ;n 
j  the  morning,  and  she  saw,  by  her  dial,  that 
!  the  hour  was  not  far  distant,  she  trembled  as 
|  if  she  were  approaching  the  stake.    Her  lover 
j  had  every  instant  less  resolution  ;  and  Corinne, 
|  who  had  never  seen  his  mastery  over  hitnseL 
j  thus  lost,  was  heart-broken  at  the  sight  of  his 
I  great  anguish.     She  consoled  him,  though  she  ! 
must  have  been  a  thousand  times  the  most  \ 
|  unhappy  of  the  two. 

"  Listen !"  she  said  :  "  when  you  are  in 
London,  fickle  gallants  will  tell  you  that  love 
promises  bind  not  your  honor ;  that  every 
Englishman  has  liked  some  Italian  on  his 
travels,  and  forgotten  her  on  his  return  ;  that 
a  few  pleasant  months  ought  to  involve  neither 
the  giver  nor  the  receiver ;  that  at  your  age 
the  color  of  your  life  cannot  depend  upon  the 
temporary  fascinations  of  a  foreigner.  Now 
this  will  seem  right  in  the  way  of  the  world  ; 
but  will  you,  who  know  the  heart  of  which 
you  made  yourself  the  lotd,  find  excuses  in 
these  sophisms  for  inflicting  a  mortal  wound  1 
Will  barbarous  jests  from  men  of  the  day  pre- 
vent your  hand's  trembling  as  it  drives  the 
poniard  through  this  breast  1"  "  Hush,"  said  i 
Oswald  :  "  you  know  it  is  not  your  grief  alone  I 
restrains  me,  it  is  my  own  ;  but  where  could  I 
I  find  a  bliss  like  that  which  I  have  owed  to 
you  ?  Who,  in  the  universe,  can  understand 
me  as  you  do1?  Corinne,  you  are  the  only 
woman  who  can  feel  or  inspire  true  love,  that 
harmonious  intelligence  of  hearts  and  souls, 
which  I  shall  never  enjoy  except  with  you. 


You  know  that  I  am  not  fickle  ;  I  look  on  ail 
things  seriously ;  is  it  then  against  you  only 
that  I  should  belie  my  nature  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  Corinne  ;  "  you  would  not 
treat  my  fond  sincerity  with  scorn  :  it  is  not 
you,  Oswald,  who  could  remain  insensible  to 
my  despair ;  but  to  you  my  step-mother  will 
say  all  that  can  sully  my  past  life.  Spare  me 
the  task  of  telling  you  beforehand  her  pitiless 
remarks.  Far  from  what  talents  I  may  boast 
disarming  her,  they  are  my  greatest  errors  in 
her  eyes.  She  cannot  feel  their  charm,  she 
only  sees  their  danger  :  whatever  is  unlike 
the  destiny  she  herself  chose  seerns  useless, 
if  not  culpable.  The  poetry  of  the  heart  ap- 
pears to  her  but  an  impertinence,  which  usurps 
the  right  of  depreciating  common  sense.  It 
is  in  the  name  of  virtues  I  respect  as  much  as 
you  do  that  she  will  condemn  my  character 
and  fate.  Oswald,  she  will  call  me  unworthy 
of  you."  "And  how  should  I  hear  thatf" 
interrupted  he  ;  "  what  virtues  dare  she  rate 
above  your  generosity,  your  frankness  1  No, 
heavenly  creature  !  be  common  minds  judged 
by  common  rules ;  but  shame  befall  the  being 
you  have  loved  who  does  not  more  revere  than 
even  adore  you.  Peerless  in  love  and  truth, 
Corinne  !  my  firmness  fails  ;  if  you  sustain 
me  not  I  can  never  fly.  It  is  from  you  I  must 
receive  the  power  to  pain  you."  "Well," 
said  Corinne,  "  there  are  some  seconds  yet  ere 
I  must  recommend  myself  to*God,  and  beg  he 
will  enable  me  to  hear  the  hour  of  your  de-  j 
parture  strike.  Oh,  Oswald,  we  love  each  j 
other  with  deep  tenderness.  I  have  entrusted 
you  with  all  my  secrets;  the  facts  are  no- 
thing— but  the  most  private  feelings  of  my 
heart,  you  knew  them  all.  I  have  not  a  thought 
that  is  not  wedded  to  thee  :  if  I  write  aught 
in  which  my  soul  expands,  thou  art  my  in- 
spiration. I  address  myself  to  thee,  as  I  shall 
my  latest  sigh.  What,  then,  is  my  asylum  if 
thou  leavest  me  ?  The  arts  will  retrace  thine 
image,  music  thy  voice  ;  Genius,  which  for- 
merly entranced  my  spirit,  is  nothing  now  but 
love,  and  unshared  with  thee  must  perish. 

"  Oh,  God !"  she  added,  raising  her  eyes  to 
heaven,  "  deign  but  to  hear  me  !  Thou  art 
not  merciless  to  our  noblest  sorrows :  take 
back  my  life  when  he  has  ceased  to  love  :  take 
that  life  which  will  then  be  onl^  suffering  ; 
take  the  wretched  remnant  of  an  existence 
which  can  then  afford  me  naught  but  suffering. 
He  carries  with  him  all  my  highest,  tenderest 
feelings  :  if  he  permits  the  fire  shrined  in  his 
breast  to  be  extinguished,  wherever  I  may  be, 
my  life,  too,  will  be  quenched.  Great  God  ! 
thou  didst  not  frame  me  to  outlive  my  better 
self,  and  what  should  I  become  in  ceasing  to 
esteem  him  1  He  ought  to  love  me  ever — I 
feel  he  ought — my  affection  should  command 


CORINNE;   OR,  ITALY. 


129 


his.      Oh!    heavenly  Father!  death   or   his 
love !" 

As  she  concluded  this  prayer  she  turned  to 
Oswald,  and  beheld  him  prostrated  before  her 
in  strong  convulsions:  he  repelled  her  cares, 
as  if  his  reason  were  entirely  lost.  *  Corinne 
gently  pressed  his  hand,  repeating  to  him  all 
he  had  said  to  her,  assuring  him  that  she  re- 
lied on  his  return.  Her  words  somewhat 
composed  him ;  yet  the  nearer  the  hour  of 
separation  drew  the  more  impossible  it  seemed 
to  part,  "Why,"  he  said,  "  should  we  not 
go  to  the  altar  and  at  once  take  our  eternal 
oaths,]"  All  the  firmness,  all  the  pride  of 
Corinne  revived  at  these  words.  Oswald  had 
told  her  that  a  woman's  grief  once  before  sub- 
dued him,  but  his  love  had  chilled  with  every 
sacrifice  he  made.  After  a  moment's  silence, 
she  replied, — "  No,  you  must  see  your  coun- 
try and  your  friends  before  you  adopt  this 

,'  resolution.  I  owe  it  now,  my  lord,  to  the 
pangs  of  parting,  and  I  will  not  accept  it." 

!  He  took  her  hand.  "  At  least,"  he  said,  "  I 
swear  again  my  faith  is  bound  to  this  ring ; 
while  you  preserve  it,  never  shall  another  at- 
tain a  right  over  my  actions  ;  if  you  at  last 
reject  me,  and  send  it  back — "  "  Cease,"  she 
interposed,  "  cease  to  talk  of  a  fear  you  never 
felt ;  I  cannot  be  the  first  to  break  our  sacred 
tie,  and  almost  blush  to  assure  you  of  what 
you  but  too  well  know  already." 

Meanwhile  the  time  advanced.  Corinne 
turned  pale  at  every  sound.  Nelvil  remained 
in  speechless  grief  beside  her  ;  at  last  a  light 
gleamed  through  the  window,  and  the  black, 
hearse-like  gondola  stopped  before  the  door. 
Corinr.e  uttered  a  scream  of  terror,  and  fell 
into  Oswald's  arms,  crying,  "  They  are  here 
— adieu — leave  me — all  is  over !"  "  Oh  God, 
oh  my  father  !"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  what  do  ye 
exact  of  me  !"  He  embraced  and  wept  over 
his  beloved,  who  continued, — "  Go !  it  must 
be  done — go  !"  "  Let  me  call  Theiesina,"  he 
said;  "I  cannot  leave  you  thus  alone." 
"  Alone  !"  she  repeated  ;  "  shall  I  not  be  alone 
till  you  return  V  "  I  cannot  quit  this  room  ; 
it  is  impossible,''  he  articulated,  with  despera- 
tion. "  Well,"  said  Corinne  ;  "  then  it  is  I 
must  give  the  signal.  I  will  open  the  door  ; 
but  when  I  have  done  so,  spare  me  a  few 
short  instants."  "  Yes,  yes,"  he  murmured. 
"  let  us  be  still  together,  though  these  crur ' 
combats  are  even  worse  Uian  absence."  Thr.-y 
now  heard  the  boatmen  calling  up  Lord  Nel- 

i  vil's  servants  ;  one  of  whom  soon  tapped  at 
the  door,  informing  him  that  all  was  ready, — 
"  All  is  ready,"  echoed  Corinne,  and  knelt 
beside  his  father's  portrait.  Doubtless  her 

J  former  life  then  passed  in  review  before  her ; 
she  exaggerated  every  fault,  and  feared  her- 
self unworthy  af  Divine  compassion,  though 


far  too  wretched  to  exist  without  it.  When 
she  arose,  she  held  forth  her  hand  to  Nelvil, 
saying, — "  Now  I  can  bid  you  farewell — a 
moment  more,  and,  perhaps,  I  could  not.  May 
God  protect  your  steps,  and  mine, — for  I  much 
need  his  care !"  Oswald  flung  himself  once 
more  into  her  arms,  trembling  and  pale  like 
one  prepared  for  torture,  and  left  the  room, 
where,  perhaps,  for  the  last  time,  he  had 
loved,  and  felt  himself  beloved,  as  few  have 
ever  been,  or  ever  can  be. 

When  he  disappeared,  a  horrid  palpitation 
attacked  Corinne  ;  she  could  not  breathe  ; 
everything  she  beheld  looked  unreal ;  objects 
seemed  vanishing  from  her  sight ;  the  cnam- 
ber  tottering  as  from  a  shock  of  earthquake. 
For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  heard  the  ser- 
vants completing  the  preparations  for  this 
journey.  He  was  still  near ;  she  might  yet 
again  behold  him,  speak  to  him  once  more  ; 
but  she  would  not  trust  herself.  Oswald  lay 
almost  senseless  in  the  gondola  :  at  last  it 
rowed  away  ;  and  at  that  rrloment  Corinne  fled 
forth  to  recall  him ;  but  Theresina  stopped 
her.  A  heavy  rain  was  falling,  and  a  high 
wind  arose  :  the  house  was  now,  indeed,  shak- 
en like  a  ship  at  sea,  and  Oswald  had  to 
cross  the  Lagune  in  such  weather !  Corinne 
descended,  purposing  to  follow  him,  at  least 
till  he  should  land  in  safety  ;  but  it  was  so 
dark  that  not  a  single  gondola  was  plying  : 
she  walked,  in  dreadful  agitation,  the  narrow 
pavement  that  divides  the  houses  from  the 
water.  The  storm  increased  :  she  called  up- 
on the  boatmen,  who  mistook  her  cries  for 
those  of  some  poor  creature  drowning, — yet 
no  one  dared  approach,  the  waves  of  the  grand 
canal  had  swollen  so  formidably.  Corinne 
remained  till  daybreak  in  this  state  ;  mean- 
while the  tempest  ceased.  One  of  the  gon- 
doliers brought  word  from  Oswald  that  he  had 
crossed  securely.  That  moment  was  almost 
a  happy  one  ;  and  it  was  some  hours  ere  the 
unfortunate  Corinne  again  felt  the  full  weight 
of  absence,  and  entered  upon  those  long,  sad 
days  which  anxiety  and  grief  were  henceforth 
alone  to  occupy. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

DURING  the  first  part  of  his  journey,  Os- 
wald was  frequently  on  tlie  point  of  returning  ; 
but  the  motives  for  perseverance  vanquished 
this  desire.  We  make  a  solemn  step  towards 
the  limits  of  Love's  empire,  whea  we  have 


130 


CORINXE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


once  disobeyed  him — the  dream  of  his  resist- 
lessness  is  over.  On  approaching  England, 
all  Oswald's  homefeit  recollections  returned. 
The  year  he  had  passed  abroad  had  no  con- 
nection with  any  other  era  of  his  life.  A 
glorious  apparition  had  charmed  his  fancy, 
but'could  not  change  the  tastes,  the  opinions, 
of  which  his  existence  had  been,  till  then, 
composed.  He  regained  himself;  and  though 
regret  prevented  his  yet  feeling  any  delight, 
his  thoughts  began  to  steady  from  the  Italian 
intoxication  which  had  unsettled  them.  No 
sooner  had. he  landed  than  his  mind  was  struck 
with  thq  ease,  the  order,  the  wealth,  and  in- 
dustry he  looked  on ;  the  habits  and  inclina- 

|  tions  to  which  he  was  born  waked  with  more 

j  force  than  ever. 

In  a  land  where  men  have  so  much  dignity, 
and  women  so  much  virtue,  where  domestic 
peace  is*  the  basis  of  public  welfare,  Oswald 
could  but  remember  Italy  to  pity  her.  Here 
he  saw  the  stamp  of  human  reason  upon  all 
things  ;  while  thefle  he  had  found,  in  social 
life  as  in  public  institutions,  nothing  but  con- 
fusion, weakness,  and  ignorance.  Painting 
and  poetry  gave  place  in  his  heart  to  freedom 
and  to  morals  ;  and,  much  as  he  loved  Co- 
rinne,  he  gently  blamed  her  for  wearying  of  a 
race  so  wise,  so  noble.  Had  he  left  her  ima- 
ginative land  for  one  of  bare  frivolity,  he 
would  have  pined'for  it  still ;  but  now  he  ex- 
changed the  vague  yearnings  after  romantic 
rapture,  for  pride  in  the  truest  blessings— se- 
curity and  independence.  He  returned  to  a 
career  that  suits  man's  mind — action  that  has 
an  aim !  Reverie  may  be  the  heritage  of 
women,  weak  and  resigned  from  their  birth  ; 
but  man  would  win  what  he  desires :  his 
courage  exasperates  him  against  his  fate,  un- 
less he  can  direct  it  by  his  will. 

In  London,  Oswald  met  his  early  friends  : 
he  beard  that  language  so  condensed  in  power, 
that  it  seems  to  imply  more  thoughts  than  it 
expresses.  Again  he  saw  those  serious  coun- 
tenances that  kindle  or  that  melt  so  suddenly, 
when  deep  affections  triumph  over  their  habit 
of  reserve.  He  once  more  tasted  the  plea- 
sure of  making  discoveries  in  hearts  which 
reveal  themselves  by  degrees  to  the  observant 
eye.  In  fine,  he  felt  himself  in  his  own  land, 
and  those  who  have  never  left  it  know  not  by 
how  many  links  it  is  endeared  to  them.  The 
image  of  Corinne  mingled  with  all  these  im- 
pressions :  and  the  more  reluctant  he  felt  to 
leave  his  country,  the  more  he  wished  .to 
marry,  and  fix  himself  in  Scotland  with  her. 
He  was  even  impatient  to  embark  that  he 
might  return  the  sponer  ;  but  the  expedition 
was  suspended,  though  still  liable  to  be  or- 
Jeied  abroad  immediately.  No  officer,  there- 
fore, could  dispose  of  his-time  even  for  a  fort- 


night. Lord  Nelvil  doubly  felt  his  separation 
from  Corinne,  having  neither  leisure  nor  lib- 
erty to  form  any  decided  plam.  He  passed 
six  weeks  in  London, ,  fretted  by  every  mo- 
ment thus  lost  to  her.  Finally,  he  resolved 
to  beguite.  his  impatience  by  a  short  visit  to 
Northumberland,  with  the  view  to  influence  j 
Lady  Edgarmond  to  recognize  the  daughter  > 
of  her  late  lord,  contradict  the  report  of  her 
death,  and  correct  the  unfavorable  insinuations 
of  the  papers  ;  for  he  longed  to  tender  her 
the  rank  and  respect  so  thoroughly  her  due. 


CHAPTER  V. 

OSWALD  reflected  with  emotion  that  he  was 
about  to  behold  the  scene  in  which  Corinne 
had  passed  so  many  years.  He  felt  embar- 
rassed by  the  necessity  of  informing  Lady 
Ecgarmond  tha-t  he  could  not  make  Lucy  his 
wife.  The  north  of  England,  too,  reminded 
him  of  Scotland,  and  the  memory  of  his  fa- 
ther was  never  absent  from  his  rnind. 

When  he  reached  Lady  Edgarmomrs 
estate,  he  was  struck  by  the  good  taste  which 
pervaded  its  grounds  ;  and,  as  the  mistress  of 
the  mansion  was  not  ready  to  receive  him,  he 
walked  awhile  in  the  park  :  through  its  foliage 
he  beheld  a  youthful  and  elegant  figure  read- 
ing with  much  atterition.  A  beautiful  fair 
curl,  escaping  from  her  bonnet,  told  him  that 
this  was  Lucy,  whom  three  years  had  im- 
proved from  child  to  woman.  He  approached 
her,  bowed,  and  forgetting  where  he  was, 
would  have  imprinted  a  respectful  kiss  upon 
her  hand,  after  the  Italian  mode  ;  but  the 
young  lady  drew  back,  and,  blushing  as  she 
courtesied,  replied,  "  I  will  inform  rny  mother, 
sir,  that  you  desire  to  see  her."  She  with- 
drew, and  Nelvil  remained  awed  by  the  mod- 
est air  of  that  angelic  face.  Lucy  had  just 
entered  her  sixteenthNyear  ;  her  features  were 
extremely  delicate  ;  she  had  a  little  outgrown 
her  strength,  as  might  be  judged  by  her  gait 
and  mutable  complexion.  Her  blue  eyes 
were  so  downcast,  th^tt  her  countenance  owed  - 
its  chief  attraction  to  those  rapid  changes  of  • 
color,  which  alone  betrayed  her  feelings.  Os- 
wald,  since  he  had  dwelt  in  the  south,  had  ! 
never  beheld  this  species  of  expression.  He  i| 
reproached  himself  for  having  accosted  her  I 
w'ith  such  familiarity  ;  and,  as  he  followed  her 
to  the  Castle,  mused  on  the  perfect  innocence 
of  a  girl  who  had  never  left  her  mother,  ner 


CORINNE  ;   OR,  ITALY. 


13 


felt  one  emotion  stronger  than  filial  tender- 
ness. 

Lady  Edgarmond  was  alone  when^she  re^ 
ceived  him.  He  had  seen  her  twice,  some 
years  before,  without  any  particular  notice  ; 
but  now  he  observed  her  carefully,  comparing 
her  with  the  descriptions  of  Corinne.  He 
found  them  correct  in  many  respects  ;  yet  he 
thought  that  he  detected  more  sensibility  than 
she  had  done,  not  being  accustomed,  like  him- 
self, to  guess  what  such  self-regulated  physi- 
ognomies conceal.  His  first  anxiety  was  on 
Corinne's  account,  and  he  began  the  conver- 
sation by  praising  Italy.  "  It  is  an  amusing 
residence  for  men,"  returned  Lady  Edgar- 
mond ;  "  but  I  should  be  very  sorry  if  any 
woman,  in  whom  I  felt  an  interest,  could  long 
be  pleased  with  it."  "  And  yet,"  continued 
Oswald,  already  hurt  by  this  insinuation,  "  I 
found  there  the  most  distinguished  woman  I 
ever  met."  "  Probably,  as  to  mental  attain- 
ments ;  but  an  honorable  man  seeks  other 
qualities  in  the  companion  of  his  life."  ''  And 
he  would  find  them  !"  he  said  warmly  :  he 
might  have  made  his  meariing  clear  at  once, 
but  that  Lucy  entered,  and  said  a  few  words 
apart  to  her  mother,  who  replied  aloud,  "  No, 
niy  dear,  you  cannot  go  to  your  cousin's  to- 
day. Lord  Nelvil  dines  here."  Lucy  blushed, 
seated  herself  beside  her  mother,  and  took  up 
her  embroidery,  from  which  she  never  raised 
her  eyes,  nor  did  she  utter  a  syllable. 

Nelvil  was  almost  angry  :  it  was  most  pro- 
bable that  Lucy  knew  there  had  been  some 
idea  of  their  union  :  he  remembered  all  Co- 
rinne had  said  on  the  probable  effects  of  the 
severe  education  Lady  Edgarmond  would 
give  her  daughter.  In  England  young  girls 
are  usually  more  at  liberty  than  married  wo- 
men :  reason  and  morality  alike  favor  their 
privileges  ;  but  Lady  Edgarmond  would  have 
had  all  females  thus  rigorously  secluded 
Oswald  could  not,  before  Lucy,  explain  his 
intentions  relative  to  Corinne  ;  and  Lady  Eu- 
'  garmond  kept  up  a  discourse  on  other  subjects, 
with  a  firm  and  simple  good  sense,  that  ex- 
torted his  deference.  He  would  have  com- 
bated her  strict  opinions,  but  he  felt  that  if  he 
used  one  word  in  a  different  acceptation  from 
her  own,  she  would  form  an  opinion  which 
nothing  could  efface  ;  and  he  hesitated  at  this 
first  step,  so  irreparable  with  a  person  who 
will  make  no  individual  exceptions,  but  judges 
everything  by  fixed  and  general  rules.  Din- 
ner was  announced ;  and  Lucy  offered  her 
arm  to  Lady  Edgarmond.  Oswald  then  first  ' 
discovered  that  hid  hostess  walked  with  great 
difficulty.  "  I  am  suffering,"  she  said,  "from 
a  painful,  perhaps  a  fatal  ailment."  Lucy 
turned  pale  ;  and  her  mother  resumed,  with  a 
more  gentle  cheerfulness,  "  My  daughter's 


attention  has  orce  saved  my  life,  and  m\y 
preserve  it  long."  Lucy  bent  her  head,  and 
when  she  raised  it,  her  lashes  were  still  wet 
with  tears ;  yet  she  dared  not  even  take  her 
mother's  hand  :  all  had  passed  at  the  bottom 
of  her  heart  ;  and  she  was  only  conscious  of 
a  stranger's  presence,  from  the  necessity  of 
concealing  her  agitation.  Oswald  deeply  felt 
this  restraint  of 'hers,  and  his  mind,  so  lately 
thrilled  by  passionate  eloquence,  refreshed 
itself  by  contemplating  so  chastely  simple  a 
picture.  Lucy  seemed  enveloped  in  some 
immaculate  veil,  that  sweetly  baffled  his  spe- 
culations. During  dinner  she  spared  her  mo- 
ther from  all  fatigue — serving  everything  her- 
self; and  Nelvil  only  heard  her  voice  when 
she  offered  to  help  him  ;  but  these  common- 
place courtesies  were  performed  with  such 
enchanting  grace,  that  he  asked  himself  how 
it  was  possible  for  such  slight  actions  to  be- 
tray so  much  soul.  "  One  mus*t  have,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "  either  the  genius  of  Corinne, 
that  surpasses  all  one  could  imagine,  or  this 
pure  unconscious  mystery,  which  leaves  every 
man  free  to  suppose  whatever  virtue  he  pre- 
fers." 

The  mother  and  daughter  rose  from  table  : 
he  would  have  followed  them  ;  but  her  Lady- 
ship adhered  so  scrupulously  to  old  customs, 
that  shS  begged  he  would  wait  till  they  sent 
to  let  him  know  the  tea  was  ready.  He  joined 
them  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Most  part  of 
the  evening  passed  without  his  having  one 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  Lady  Edgarmond 
as  he  designed.  He  was  about  to  depart  for 
the  town,  purposing  to  return  on  the  morrow, 
when  his  hostess  offered  him  a  room  in  the 
castle.  He  accepted  it  without  deliberation  ; 
but  repented  his  readiness,  on  perceiving  that 
it  seemed  to  be  taken  as  a  proof  of  his  incli- 
nation towards  Lucy.  This  was  but  an  addi- 
tional motive  for  his  renewing  the  conversa- 
tion respecting  Corinne.  Lady  Edgarmond 
proposed  a  turn  in  the  garden.  Oswald  offe-ed 
her  his  arm  :  she  looked  'at  him  steadfastly, 
and  then  said,  "  I  will  take  it :  I  thank  you." 
Lucy  resigned  her  parent  to  Nelvil,  but  timidly 
whispered,  "Pray,  my  lord,  walk  slowly!" 
He  started  at  this  first  private  intelligence 
with  her  :  those  pitying  tones  were  just  such 
as  he  might  have  expected  from  a  being  above 
all  earthly  passions.  He  did  not  thins  his 
sense  of  such  a  moment  any  treason  to  Co- 
rinne. They  returned  for  evening  prayer,  at 
which  her  ladyship  always  assembled  her 
household  in  the  great  hall.  Most  of  them 
were  very  infirm,  having  served  the  fatheis 
of  Lord  and  Lady  Edgarmond.  Oswald  was 
thus  reminded  of  his  paternal  home.  Erery 
one  knelt,  except  Lady  Edgarmond,  who, 
prevented  by  her  lameness,  listened  with 


132 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


1 1 

1 1  ibldea  hands  and  downcast  eyes  in  reverent 
silence.  Lucy  was  on  her  knees  beside  her 
parent :  it  was  her  duty  to  read  the  service  ; 
a  chapter  of  the  Gospel,  followed  by  a  prayer 
adapted  to  domestic  country  life,  composed  by 
her  mother  :  its  somewhat  austere  expressions 
added  to  the  effect  of  the  closing  words  which 
Lucy  pronounced  in  a  trembling  voice. 

After  blessing  the  king  and  country,  the 
servants  and  the  kindred  of  this  family,  was 
the  following — "  Grant  also,  O  God !  that  the 
young  daughter  of  this  house  may  live  and 
die  with  soul  tmsullied  by  a  single  thought  or 
feeling  that  conforms  not  with  her  duty  ;  and 
that  her  mother,  who  must  soon  return  to  thee 
for  judgment,  may  have  some  claim  on  pardon 
for  her  faults,  in  the  virtues  of  her  only 
child !" 

Lucy  said  this  prayer  daily ;  but  now  Os- 
wald's presence  so  affected  her,  that  tears, 
which  she  strove  to  conceal,  flowed  down  her 
cheeks.  He  was  touched  with  respectful 
tenderness,  as  he  gazed  on  the  almost  infant- 
ine face,  that  looked  as  if  it  still  remembered 
having  dwelt  in  heaven.  Its  beauty,  thus 
surrounded  by  age  and  decrepitude,  was  an 
image  of  divine  commiseration.  He  reflected 
on  her  lonely  life,  deprived  of  all  the  plea- 
sures, all  the  flatteries,  due  to  her  youth  and 
charms  :  his  soul  melted  towards  her.  The 
mother  of  Lucy,  too,  he  found  a  person  more 
severe  to  herself  than  to  others.  The  limits 
of  her  mind  might  rather  be  attributed  to  the 
strength  of  her  principles  than  to  any  natural 
deficiencies :  .the  asperity  of  her  character 
was  acquired  from  repressed  impulses  ;  and, 
as  Corinne  had  said,  her  affection  for  her  child 
gained  force  from  this  extreme  control  of  all 
others. 

By  ten  in  the  evening  all  was  silent  through- 
out the  castle,  and  Oswald  left  to  muse  over 
his  few  last  hours  :  he  owned  not  to  himself 
that  Lucy  had  made  an  impression  on  his 
heart ;  perhaps,  as  yet,  this  was  not  the  case  ; 
but  in  spite  of  the  thousand  attractions  Co- 
rinne offered  to  his  fancy,  there  was  one  class 
of  ideas,  which  could  harmonize  only  with 
Lucy.  Images  of  domestic  felicity  associated 
better  with  a  retreat  in  Northumberland  than 
•with  a  coronation  at  the  Capitol :  in  fine,  he 
remembered  which  of  these  sisters  his  father 
had  selected  for  him :  but  he  loved  Corinne, 
was  beloved  by  her,  had  given  her  his  faith, 
and  therefore  persisted  in  his  intention  of  con- 
fiding this  to  Lady  Edgarmond  on  the  morrow. 
He  fell  asleep  thinking  of  Italy,  but  still  the 
fo'm  of  Lucy  flitted  lightly  before  him.  He 
a  yoke  :  when  he  slept  again,  the  same  dream 
returned  ;  at  last  this  ethereal  shape  seemed 
ij  dying  from  him,  he  strove  to  detain  her,  and 
jj  started  up,  as  she  disappeared,  fearing  her 


lost  to  him.     The  day  had  broken  and  he  left 
his  room  to  enjoy  a  morning  walk. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  sun  had  just  risen.  Oswald  supposed 
that  no  one  was  yet  stirring,  till  he  perceived 
Lucy  upon  the  balcony  already  engaged  in 
drawing.  Her  hair,  not  yet  fastened,  was 
waving  in  the  gale  :  she  looked  so  like  his 
dream,  that  for  a  moment  he  started,  as  if  he 
had  beheld  a  spirit,  but  he  immediately  after 
felt  ashamed  at  having  been  so  affected  by 
such  a  natural  circumstance.  He  remained 
for  some  time  before  the  balcony,  but  she  did 
I  not  perceive  him.  As  he  pursued  his  walk, 
he  wished  more  than  ever  for  the  presence 
that  would  have  dissipated  these  half-formed 
impressions.  Lucy  was  an  enigma,  which 
Corinne's  genius  could  have  solved  ;  without 
her  aid,  it  took  a  thousand  changeful  forms  in 
his  mind's  eye.  He  re-entered  the  drawing- 
room,  and  found  Lucy  placing  her  morning's 
work  in  a  little  brown  frame,  facing  her  mo- 
ther's tea-table.  It  was  a  white  rose,  on  its 
leafy  sfulk,  finished  to  perfection.  "  You 
draw,  then  1"  he  said.  "  No,  my  lord,"  she 
answered  ;  "  I  merely  copy  the  easiest  flowers 
I  can  find  :  there  is  no  master  near  us  :  the 
little  I  ever  learnt  I  owe  to  a  sister  who  used 
to  give  me  lessons."  She  sighed.  "  And 
what  is  become  of  her  V  asked  Oswald. 
"  She  is  dead  ;  but  I  shall  always  regret  her." 
He  found  that  she,  too,  had  been  deceived  ; 
but  her  confession.of  regret  evinced  so  amia- 
ble a  disposition,  that  he  felt  more  pleased, 
more -affected,  than  before.  Lucy  was  about 
to  retire,  remembering  that  she  was  alone 
with  Lord  Nelvil,  when  Lady  Edgarmond 
joined  them.  She  looked  on  her  daughter 
with  surprise  and  displeasure,  and  motioned 
her  to  withdraw.  This  first  informed  Oswald, 
that  Lucy  had  done  something  very  extraor- 
dinary, in  remaining  a  few  minutes  with  him 
out  of  her  mother's  presence :  and  he  was 
as  much  gratified  as  he  would  have  been  by 
a  decided  mark  of  preference  under  other 
auspices. 

Lady  Edgarmond  took  her  seat,  and  dis- 
missed the  servants  who  had  supported  her 
to  the  sofa.  She  was  pale,  and  her  lips 
trembled  as  she  offered  a  cup  of  tea  to  Lord 
Nelvil.  These  symptoms  increased  his  own 
embarrassment ;  yet,  animated  by  zeal  for  her 
he  loved,  he  began,  "  Lady  Edgarmond,  I 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


have  often  in  Italy  seen  a  female  particularly 
interesting  to  you."  "  I  cannot  'believe  it," 
she  answered,  drily  :  "  no  one  there  interests 
me."  "  I  shouJd  "think  that  the  daughter  of 
your  husband  had  some  claim  on  your  affec- 
tion." "  If  the  daughter  of  my  husband  be 
indifferent  to  her  duties  and  reputation,  though 
I  surely  cannot  wish  her  any  ill,  I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  hear  no'more  of  her."  "But," 
said  Oswald,  quickly,  "  if  the  woman  your 
Ladyship  deserts  is  celebrated  by  the  world 
for  her  great  and  varied  talents,  will  you  for 
ever  thus  disdain  her  V  "  Not  the  less,  sir, 
for  the  abilities  that  wean  her  from  her  right- 
ful occupations.  There  are  plenty  of  actresses, 
artists,  and  musicians,  to  amuse  society  :  in 
our  rank,  a  woman's  only  becoming  station  is 
that  which  devotes  her  to  her  husband  and 
children."  "  Madam,"  returned  Oswald, 
"  such  talents  cannot  exist  without  an  elevated 
character  and  a  generous  heart :  do  you  cen- 
sure them  for  extending  the  mind,  and  giving 
a  more  vast,  more  general  influence  to  virtue 
itself?"  "  Virtue  !"  she  repeated,  with  a  bit- 
ter smile  ;  "  I  know  not  what  you  mean  by  the 
wordv  so  applied.  The  virtue  of  a  young  wo- 
man, who  flies  from  her  father's  home,  esta- 
blishes herself  in  Italy,  leads  the  most  inde- 
pendent life,  receiving  all  kinds  of  homage,  to 
say  no  worse,  setting  an  example  pernicious 
to  others  as  to  herself,  abandoning  her  rank, 
her  family,  her  name "  "  Madam,"  inter- 
rupted Oswald,  "  she  sacrificed  her  name  to 
you,  and  to  your  daughter,  whom  she  feared 
to  injure."  "  She  knew  that  she  dishonored 
it,  then,"  replied  the  step-mother.  "  This  is 
too  much,"  said  Oswald,  violently  :  "  Corinne 
Edgarmond  will  soon  be  Lady  Nelvil,  and  we 
i  shall  then  see  if  you  blush  to  acknowledge  the 
|  daughter'  of  your  lord.  You  confound  with 
the  vulgar  herd  a  being  gifted  like  no  other 
woman — an  angel  of  goodness,  tender  and 
timid  at  heart,  as  she  is  sublime  of  soul.  She 
may  have  had  her  faults,  if  that  innate  supe- 
riority that  could  not  conform  with  common 
rules  be  one,  but  a  single  deed  or  word  of  hers 
j  might  well  efface  them  all.  She  will  more 
honor  the  man  she  chooses  to  protect  her  than 
could  the  empress  of  a  world."  "It  may  be, 
my  Lord/'  said  Lady  Edgarmond,  making  an 
effort  to  restrain  her  feelings,  "  that  you  will 
satirize  me  as  narrow-minded  ;  but  nothing 
you  can  say  will  change  me.  I  understand 
by  morality,  an  exact  observance  of  established 
rules,  beyond  which,  fine  qualities  misapplied 
deserve,  at  best,  but  p;ty."  "  The  world 
would  have  been  very  sterile,  my  Lady,"  said 
Oswald,  "  had  it  always  thought  as  you  do  of 
genius  and  enthusiasm  :  human  nature  would 
have  become  a  thing  of  mere  formalities.  But, 
not  to  continue  this  fruitless  discussion,  I  will 


only  ask,  if  you  mean  to  acknowledge  your 
step-daughter,  when  she  is  my  "wife?" 
"  Still  less  on  that  account,"  answered  her 
Ladyship  :  "  I  owe  your  father's  memory  my 
exertions  to  prevent  so  fatal  an  union,  if  I 
can."  "  My  father !"  repeated  Nelvil,  always 
agitated  by  that  name.  "Are  you  ignorant," 
she  continued,  "  that  he  refused  her  hand  for 
you  ere  she  had  committed  any  actual  fault, 
foreseeing,  with  the  perfect  sagacity  that  so 
characterized  him,  what  she  would  one  day 
become  ?"  "  How,  madam  !  what  more  know 
you  of  this  1"  "Your  father's  letter  to  Lord 
Edgarmond  on  the  subject,"  interrupted  the 
lady,  "is  in  the  hands  of  his  old  friend,  Mr. 
Dickson.  I  sent  it  to  him,  when  I  heard  of 
your  connection  with  this  Corinne,  that  you 
might  read  it  on  your  return  :  it  would  not 
have  become  me  to  retain  it." 

Oswald,  after  a  few  moments'  silence,  re- 
sumed : — "  I  ask  your  Ladyship  but  for  an  act 
of  justice,  due  to  yourself,  that  is,  to  receive 
your  husband's  daughter  as  she  deserves.1' 
"  I  shall  not,  in  any  way,  my  Lord,  contribute 
to  your  misery.  If  her  present  nameless  and 
unmatronized  existence  be  an  obstacle  to  your 
marrying  her,  God,  and  your  fatker,  forbid 
that  I  should  remove  it !"  "  Madam,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "  her  misfortunes  are  but  added 
chains  that  bind  me  to  her."  "  Well,"  re- 
plied Lady  Edgarmond.  with  an  impetuosity 
to  which  she  would  not  have  given  way  had 
not  her  own  child  been  thus  deprived  of  a 
suitable  husband,  "  well,  render  yourselves 
wretched,  then!  for  she  will  be  so  too:  she 
hates  this  country,  and  never  will  comply 
with  its  manners  :  this  is  no  theatre  for  the 
versatile  talents  yea  so  prize,  and  which  ren- 
der her  so  fastidious.  She  will  carry  you 
back  to  Italy  :  you  will  forswear  your  friends 
and  native  land,  for  a  foreigner  attractive  I 
confess,  but  one  who  could  forget  you,  if  you 
wished  it.  For  there  is  nothing  more  change- 
ful than  those  flighty  spirits  :  deep  gViefs  were 
made  for  the  women  you  deem  so  common- 
place, those  who  live  but  for  their  homes  anu 
families."  This  was,  perhaps,  the  first  time 
in  her  life  that  Lady  Edgarmond  had  spoken 
on  impulse  :  it  shook  her  weakened  nerves : 
and,  as  she  ceased,  she  sunk  back,  half  faint- 
ing. Oswald  rang  loudly  for  help. 

Lucy  ran  in  alarmed,  hastened  to  revive 
her  parent,  and  cast  on  Nelvil  an  uneasy  look 
that  seemed  to  say,  "  Is  it  you  who  have  made 
my  mother  so  ill  ?"  He  felt  this  deeply,  and 
strove  to  atone  by  attentions  to  Lady  Edgar- 
mond ;  but  she  repulsed  him  coldly,  blushing 
to  think  that  she  had  not  respected  her  own 
pride  in  her  daughter  by  betraying  this  anxiety 
to  secure  her  a  reluctant  bridegroom.  She 
bade  Lucy  leave  them  :  and  then  said,  calmly. 


.34 


CORIXNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


"  My  Lord,  at  all  events,  I  beg  that  you  will  con- 
sider yourself  free.  My  daughter  is  so  young, 
that  she  is  in  no  way  concerned  in. the  project 
formed  by  your  father  and  myself;  but  that 
being  changed,  it  would  be  an  indecorum  for 
me  to  receive  you  until  she  is  married."  Nel- 
vil  bowed.  "  I  will  content  myself,  then."  he 
said,  "with  writing  to  you  on  the  fate  of  a 
person  whom  I  can  never  desert."  "  You 
are  the  master  of  your  conduct,"  concluded 
Lady  Edgarmond,  in  a  smothered  voice  ;  and 
Oswald  departed. 

In  riding  down  the  avenue,  he  perceived,  at 
a  distance,  the  elegant  figure  of  young  Lucy. 
He  checked  his  horse  to  look  on  her  once 
more,  and  it  appeared  that  she  took  the  same 
direction  with  himself.  The  high  road  passed 
before  a  summer-house,  at  the  end  of  the  park ; 
he  saw  her  enter  it,  and  went  by  with  some 
reluctance,  unable  to  discern  her  ;  he  fre- 
quently turned  his  head,  and,  at  a  point  from 
which  the  road  was  best  commanded,  observed 
a  slight  movement  among  the  trees.  He 
stopped ;  it  ceased :  uncertain  whether  he 
had  guessed  correctly,  he  proceeded,  then 
abruptly  rode  back  with  the  speed  of  light- 
ning, as  if  he  had  dropped  something  by  the 
way  ;  there,  indeed,  he  saw  her,  on  the  edge 
of  the  bank,  and  bowed  respectfully  :  she 
drew  down  her  veil,  and  hastily  concealed 
herself  in  the  thicket,  forgetting  that  she  thus 
tacitly  avowed  the  motive  which  had  brought 
her  there.  The  poor  child  had  never  felt  so 
guilty  in  her  life,  as  in  this  desire  to  see  Lord 
Nelvil  as  he  passed  ;  and  far  from  thinking  of 
simply  returning  his  salute,  she  feared  that 
she  must  have  lost  his  good  opinion  by  having 
been  so, forward.  Ossvald  felt  flattered  by 
this  blameless  and  timorous  sincerity.  "  No 
one,"  thought  he,  "  could  be  more  candid  than 
Corinne ;  but  then,  no  one  better  knew  her- 
self or  others.  Lucy  has  all  to  learn.  Yet 
this  charm  of  the  day,  could  it  suffice  for  a 
life  ?  this  pretty  ignorance  cannot  endure  ; 
and  since  we  must  penetrate  the  secrets  of 
our  own  hearts  at  last,  is  not  the  candor  which 
survives  such  examination  worth  more  than 
that  which  precedes  it  1"  This  comparison, 
he  believed,  was  but  an  amusement  to  his 
mind,  which  could  never  occupy  it  more 
gravely. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

OSWALD  proceeded  to  Scotland.    The  effect 
of  Lucy's  presence,  and  the  sentiment  he  still 


felt  for  Corinne,  alike  gave  place  to  the  emo- 
tions that  were  awakened  by  the  sight  of 
scenes  where  he  had  dwelt  with  his  father. 
He  upbraided  himself  with  the  dissipations  in 
which  he  had  spent  the  las't  year  ;  fearing 
that  he  was  no  longer  worthy  to  re-enter  the 
abode  he  now  wished  he  had  never  quitted. 
Alas  !  after  the  loss  of  life's  dearest  object, 
how  can  we  be  content"  with  ourselves,  unless 
in  perfect  retirement !  We  cannot  mix  in 
society  without,  in  some  way,  neglecting  vur 
worship  of  the  dead.  In  vain  their  memory 
reigns  in  the  heart's  core  ;  we  lend  ourselves 
to  the  activity  of  the  living,  which  banishes, 
the  thought  of  death  as  painful  and  unavailing. 
If  solitude  prolongs  not  our  regrets,  life,  as  it 
is,  calls  back  the  most  feeling  minds,  renews 
their  interests,  their  passions.  This  imperi- 
ous necessity  is  one  of  the  sad  conditions  of 
human  nature  ;  and,  although  decreed  by  Pro- 
vidence— that  man  may  support  the  idea  of 
death,  both  for  himself  and  others, — yet  often, 
in  the  midst  of  our  enjoyments,  we  feel  re- 
morse at  being  still  capable  of  them,  and 
seem  to  hear  a  resigned,  affecting  voice  ask- 
ing us,  "  Have  you,  whom  I  so  loved,  for- 
gotten me !"  Oswald  felt  not  now  the  des- 
pair he  had  suffered  on  his  first  return  home 
alter  his  father's  death,  but  a  melancholy, 
deepened  by  his  perceiving  that  time  had 
accustomed  every  one  else  to  the  loss  he  stijl 
deplored.  The  servants  no  longer  thought  it 
their  duty  to  speak  of  their  late  lord  ;  his 
place  in  the  rank  of  life  was  filled  ;  children 
grow  up  as  substitutes  for  thefr  sires.  Os- 
wald shut  himself  in  his  father's  room,  for 
lonely  meditation.  "Oh,  human  destiny!" 
he  sighed,  "  what  would'st  thou  have  ?  so 
much  life  perish  ?  so  many  thoughts  expire } 
No,  no !  my  only  friend  hears  me,  yet  sees 
my  tears,  is  present, — our  immortal  spirits 
still  commune.  Oh,  God  !  be  thou  my  guide. 
Those  iron  souls,  that  seetn  immovable  as  na- 
ture's rocks,  know  not  the  vacillations  and 
repentance  of  the  sensitive,  the  conscientious, 
who  cannot  take  one  step  without  the  fear  of 
straying  from  the  right.  They  seek  the  guid- 
ance of  duty,  but  duty's  self  would  vanish 
from  their  eyes,  if  the  divinity  reveal  not  the 
truth  in  their  hearts." 

In  the  evening  Oswald  roved  through  the 
favorite  walks  of  his  father.  Who  has  not 
hoped,  in  the  ardor  of  his  prayers,  that  the 
one  dear  shade  would  reappear,  arid  miracles 
be  wrought  by  the  force  of  love  ?  Vain  trust ! 
beyond  the  tomb  we  can  see  nothing.  These 
endless  uncertainties  occupy  not  the  vulgar, 
but  the  nobler  the  mind  the  more  incontrolla- 
bly  is  it  involved  in  speculation.  While  Os- 
wald wandered  thus  absorbed,  he  did,  indeed, 
behold  a  venerable  man  slowly  advancing  to- 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


135 


wards  him.  Such  a  sight,  at  such  a  time  and 
place,  took  a  strong  effect ;  hut  he  soon  re- 
cognized his  father's  friend,  Mr.  Dickson,  and 
with  an  affection  which  he  never  felt  for  him 
before. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THIS  gentleman  in  no  way  equalled  the  pa- 
rent of  Oswald,  but  he  was  with  him  at  his 
death  ;  and  having  been  born  in  the  same  year, 
he  seemed  to  linger  behind  but  to  carry  Lord 
Nelvil  some  tidings  of  his  son.  Oswald  of- 
fered him  his  arm  as  they  went  up  stairs  ;  and 
felt  a  pleasure  in  paying  attention  to  age,  how- 
ever little  resembling  that  of  his  father.  Mr. 
Dickson  remembered  Oswald's  birth,  and 
hesitated  not  to  speak  his  mind  on  all  that 
concerned  his  young  friend,  strongly  repri- 
manding his  connection  with  Corinne  ;  but  his 
'.veak  arguments  would  have  gained  less  as- 
cendency over  Oswald's  mind  than  those  of 
Ladv  Edgarmond,  had  he  not  handed  him  the 
letter  to  which  she  alluded.  This  letter  was 
written  by  Lord  Nelvil  to  Lord  Edgarmond, 
when  he  wished  to  prevent  the  intended  mar- 
riage between  his  son  and  Corinne,  then  Miss 
Edgarmond.  It  was  dated  in  17!)  1.  during 
Oswald's  first  visit  to  France.  With  much 
agitation  he  read  as  follows  : — 

"  Will  you  forgive  me,  my  dear  friend,  if  I 
propose  a  change  of  plan  in  the  union  of  our 
families  1    My  son  is  more  than  a  year  young- 
er than  your  eldest  daughter ;  will  it  not  be 
|     better,  therefore,  to  make  choice  of  your  se- 
cond daughter  Lucy,  who   is   twelve   years 
I    younger  than  her   sister  1     I  might   confine 
i    myself  to  the  subject  of  age  ;  but,  as  I  knew 
Miss  Edgarmond's  when  first  I  named  my 
i    wishes,  I  should  deem  myself  wanting  in  con- 
fidence, if  I  did  not  tell  you  my  true  reasons 
for  desiring  that  this  marriage  may  not  take 
j  place.     WB  have  known  each  other  for  twenty 
;  years,  and  may  speak  frankly  of  our  children, 
especially  while  they  are  young  enough  to  be 
i  improved  by  our  opinions.     Your  daughter  is 
a  charming  girl,  but  I  seem  to  be  gazing  on 
one  of  those   Grecian  beauties   who,  of  old, 
enchanted  and  subdued  the  world.     Do  not  be 
1  offended  by  this  comparison.     She  can  have 
I   received  from  you  none  but  the  purest  princi- 
I   pies ;  yet  she  certainly  loves  to  produce  an 
i   effect,  and  create  a  sensation ;  she  has  more 
i   genius  than  self-love  :  such  talents  as  hers 


necessarily  engender  a  taste  for  display  ;  and 
I  know  no  theatre  that  could  suffice  the  activi- 
ty of  a  spirit  whose  impetuous  fancy,  and  ar- 
dent feelings,  break  out  in  each  word  she 
•utters.  She  would  inevitably  wean  my  son 
from  England  ;  for  such  a  woman  could  not 
be  happy  here  :  Italy  alone  can  content  her. 
She  must  have  that  free  life  which  is  guided 
but  by  fantasy  :  our  domestic  country  habits 
must  thwart  her  every  taste.  A  man  born  in 
this  happy  land  ought  to  be  in  all  things  Eng- 
lish, and  fulfil  the  duties  to  which  he  is  so  for- 
tunately called.  In  countries  whose  political 
institutions  give  men  such  honorable  opportu- 
nities for  public  action,  the  women  should 
bloom  in  the  shade :  can  you  expect  so  dis- 
tinguished a  person  as  your  daughter  to  be 
satisfied  with  such  a  lot?  Take  my  advice. 
Marry  her  in  Italy  :  her  religion  and  manners 
suit  that  country.  If  my  son  should  wed  her, 
I  am  sure  it  would  be  from  love,  for  no  one 
can  be  more  engaging  :  to  please  her,  he  would 
endeavor  to  introduce  foreign  customs  into 
his  establishment,  and  would  soon  lose  his  na- 
tional character,  those  prejudices,  if  you  please 
to  call  them  so,  which  unite  us  with  each  other, 
and  render  us  a  body  free  but  indissoluble,  or 
which  can  only  be  broken  up  by  the  death  of 
its  last  member.  My  son  could  not  be  con- 
tented where  his  wife  was  unhappy :  he  (is 
sensitive,  even  to  weakness  ;  and  his  expatria- 
tion, if  I  lived  to  see  it,  would  render  me  most 
miserable  ;  not  merely  as  deprived  of  my  son,  I 
but  as  knowing  him  lost  to  the  glory  of  serv- 
ing his  native  land. 

"  Is  it  worthy  a  son  of  our  mountains  to 
drag  on  a  useless  life  amid  the  pleasures  of 
Italy  *  A  Scottish  cicisbeo  of  his  own  wife, 
if  not  of  some  other  man's  !  Neither  the 
guide  nor  the  prop  of  his  family  !  I  even  re- 
joice that  Oswald  is  now  in  France,  and  still 
unknown  to  a  lady  whose  empire  over  him 
would  be  too  great.  I  dare  conjure  you,  my 
dear  friend,  should  I  die  before  his  marriage, 
do  not  let  him  meet  your  eldest  daughter  until  ! 
Lacy  be  of  an  age  to  fix  his  affections.  Let  ; 
him  -learn  my  wishes,  if  requisite.  I  know  he  j 
will  respect  them — the  more  if  I  should  then 
be  removed  from  this  life.  Give  all  your  at- 
tention, I  entreat  you,  to  his  union  with  Lucy. 
Child  as  she  is,  her  features,  look,  and  voice, 
all  express  the  most  endearing  modesty.  She 
will  be  a  true  Englishwoman,  and  may  con- 
stitute the  happiness  of  my  boy.  If  I  do  not 
live  to  witness  their  felicity,  1  shall  exuit  over 
it  in  heaven  ;  and  when  we  re-unite  there,  my 
dear  friend,  our  prayers  and  benedictions  will 
protect  our  children  still. 

"Ever  yours,        "  NELVIL.  " 

After  reading  this,  Oswald  remained  silent, 


136 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


and  left  Mr.  Dickson  time  to  continue  his  long- 
discourse  without  interruption.  He  admired 
the  judgment  of  his  friend,  who,  nevertheless, 
he  said,  was  far  from  anticipating  the  repre- 
hensible life  Miss  Edgarmond  had  since  led  : 
a  marriage  between  Oswald  and  herself  now, 
he  added,  would  be  an  eternal  insult  to  Lord 
Nelvil's  memory  ;  who,  it  appeared,  during 
his  son's  fatal  residence  in  France,  had  passed 
a  whole  summer  at  Lady  Edgarmond's,  so- 
lacing himself  by  superintending  the  education 
of  his  favorite  Lucy.  In  fact,  without  either 
artifice  or  forbearance,  Mr.  Dickson  attacked 


the  heart  of  Oswald  through  all  the  avenues 
of  sensibility.  Thus  everything  conspired 
against  the  absent  Corinne,  who  had  no  means, 
save  letters,  for  reviving,  from  time  to  time, 
the  tenderness  of  Oswald.  She  had  to  con-  j 
tend  with  liis  love  of  country,  his  filial  re- 
morse, the  concerted  efforts  and  exhortations 
of  his  friends,  in  favor  of  resolutions  natural 
and  so  easy  to  adopt,  as  they  led  him  towards 
a  budding  beauty,  whose  every  charm  seemed 
to  harmonize  with  the  calm,  pure  hopes  of  a 
domestic  lot. 


BOOK      XVII. 


CORINNE       IN       SCOTLAND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

CORCNNE,  meanwhile,  had  settled  in  a  villa 
on  the  Brenta  :  she  could  not  quit  the  scenes 
in  which  she  had  last  met  Oswald — and  also 
hoped  that  she  should  here  receive  her  letters 
earlier  than  at  Rome.  Prince  Castel  Forte 
had  written,  begging  leave  to  visit  her ;  but 
she  refused.  The  friendship  existing  between 
them  commanded  mutual  confidence  ;  and  had 
he  striven  to  detach  her  from  her  love, — haa 
he  told  her  what  she  so  often  told  herself, — 
that  absence  must  decrease  Nelvil's  attach- 
ment, one  inconsiderate  word  would  have 
been  a  dagger  to  her  heart.  She  wished  to 
see  no  one.  But  it  is  not  easy  to  live  alone, 
while  the  soul  is  ardent,  and  its  situation  un- 
fortunate. The  employments  of  solitude  re- 
quire peace  of  mind  :  if  that  be  lost,  forced 
gaiety,  however  troublesome,  is  more  service- 
able than  meditation.  If  we  could  trace  mad- 
ness to  its  source,  we  should  surely  find  that 
it  originated  in  the  power  of  one  single  thought, 
which  excluded  all  mental  variety.  Corinne's 
imagination  consumed  herself,  unless  diverted 
by  external  excitement. 

What  a  life  now  succeeded  that  which  she 
had  led  for  nearly  a  year  !  scarce  a  day  had 
passed  that  Oswald  did  not  spend  with  her. 
He  followed  her  eArery  movement,  eagerly 
caught  each  word  that  she  uttered.  His 
mind  excited  hers  ;  their  intercourse  was  ani- 
mated not  less  by  the  points  of  difference 
than  those  of  resemblance  between  their  re- 


i  spective  characters.     His  soothing  attentions, 
I  his  fond  looks  were  a  constant  source  of  en- 
I  joyment  to  her  ;  when  the  least  inquietude  dis- 
turbed her,  Oswald  would  take  her  hand  in 
his,  press  it  to  his  heart,  and  peace,  ay,  more 
than  peace — a  vague,  delicious  hope,  would 
spring  up  in  the  bosom  of  Corinne.     Now  all 
was  barren  without  and  gloomy  within  her. 
The  only  interesting  event  was  the  arrival  of 
a  letter  from  him  ;  and  the  irregularity  of  the  ; 
post,  during  winter,  every  day  tormented  her  j 
with  expectations,  often  disappointed.     Each 
morning  she  walked  on  the  banks  of  the  ca- 
nal, now  covered  by  large-leaved  water  lilies,  j 
watching  for  the  black  gondola,  which  she 
had  learned  to  distinguish  afar  off.     How  did 
j  her  heart  beat,  as  she  perceived  it !     Some- 
times the  messenger  would  answer,  "  No  let-  i 
ters  for  you,  madame,"  and  carelessly  proceed  j 
to  other  matters,  as  if  nothing  were  so  simple  ; 
as  to  have  no  letters  :  another  time  he  would  i 
say,  "  Yes,  madame,  here  are  some."     She  j 
ran  over  them  all  with  a  trembling  hand  :  if  j 
the  well-known  characters  of  Oswald  met  not  i 
her  eye,  the  day  was  terrible,  the  night  sleep-  ! 
less,  the  morrow  redoubled  her  anxiety  and  j 
suspense.     "  Surely,"  she  thought,  "  he  might  j 
write  more  frequently  ;"  and  her  next  letter 
reproached  his  silence.     He  justified  himself; 
but  his  style  had  already  lost  some  of  its  ten- 
derness :    instead  of  expressing  his  own  so- 
licitude, it  seemed  but  attempting  to  di-r^pa^ 
hers.     This  change  did  not  escape  her  :  dav 
and  night  would   she    reperuse   a   particular 


COR1NNE ;  OR,  ITALY. 


137 


phrase,  seeking  some  new  interpretation  on 
which  to  build  a  few  days'  composure.  This 
state  shattered  her  nerves  :  she  became  su- 
perstitious. Constantly  occupied  by  the  same 
fear,  we  may  draw  presages  from  everything. 
One  day  in  every  week  she  went  to  A^enice, 
for  the  purpose  of  receiving  her  letters  some 
hours  earlier  :  this  merely  varied  the  tortures 
of  waiting  ;  and  in  a  short  time  she  conceived 
as  great  a  horror  for  every  object  she  encoun- 
tered on  her  way,  as  if  they  had  been  the 
spectres  of  her  own  thoughts,  re-appearing 
clothed  in  the  most  dreadful  aspects.  Once, 
j  on  entering  the  church  of  St.  Mark,  she  re- 
membered how,  on  her  arrival  in  Venice,  the 
idea  had  occurred  to  her  that  perhaps,  ere  she 
departed,  Oswald  would  lead  her  thither  to 
call  her  his  in  sight  of  heaven.  She  gave 
way  once  more  to  this  illusion ;  saw  him  ap- 
proach the  altar  ;  heard  him  vow  before  his 
God  to  love  her  for  ever  ;  they  knelt  together, 
and  she  received  the  nuptial  crown.  The  or- 
gan, then  playing,  and  the  lights  that  shone 
through  the  aisle,  gave  life  to  her  vision  ;  and 
for  a  moment  she  felt  not  the  cruel  void  of 
absence  :  but  suddenly  a  dreary  murmur  suc- 
ceeded— she  turned,  and  beheld  a  bier  brought 
into  the  church.  She  staggered ;  her  sight 
almost  failed  ;  and  from  that  moment  she  felt 
convinced  that  her  love  for  Oswald  would 
lead  her  but  to  the  grave. 


CHAPTER  II. 

LORD  NELVIL  was  now  the  most  unhappy 
and  irresolute  of  men.  He  must  either  break 
the  heart  of  Corinne,  or  outrage  the  memory 
of  his  father.  Cruel  alternative,!  to  escape 
which  he  called  on  death  a  thousand  times  a 
j  day.  At  last  he  once  more  resorted  to  his 
'  habitual  procrastination,  telling  himself  that 
he  would  go  to  Venice,  since  he  could  not  re- 
solve to  write  Corinne  the  truth,  and  make 
her  his  judge  ;  but  then  he  daily  expected 
that  his  regiment  would  embark.  He  was 
free  from  all  engagement  with  Lucy.  He  be- 
lieved it  his  duty  not  to  marry  Corinne  ;  but 
in  what  other  way  could  he  pass  his  life  with 
her  ?  Could  he  desert  his  country  ?  or  bring 
her  to  it,  and  ruin  her  fair  name  for  ever  ? 
He  resolved  to  hide  from  her  the  obstacles 
which  he  had  encountered  from  her  stepmo- 
ther, because  he  still  hoped  ultimately  to  sur- 
mount them. 

Meanwhile  the  tone  of  his  letters  was  much 


altered  ;  he  would  not  communicate  to  her  all 
that  was  passing  in  his  mind,  but  he  could  no 
longer  express  himself  with  the  same  free- 
dom. His  letters  were  brief,  or  filled  with 
subjects  remote  from  his  future  prospects. 
Any  one,  save  Corinne,  would  have  guessed 
all  ;  but  passion  rendered  her  at  once  quick 
sighted  and  credulous.  In  such  a  state  we 
see  nothing  in  a  natural  manner  ;  but  discover 
what  is  concealed,  while  blind  to  that  which 
should  seem  clearest.  We  cannot  brook  the 
idea  of  suffering  so  much  without  some  ex- 
traordinary caus» ;  we  will  not  confess  to 
ourselves  that  such  despair  may  be  produced 
by  the  simplest  circumstances. 

Though  Oswald  pitied  her,  and  blamed 
himself,  his  correspondence  betrayed  an  irri- 
tation which  it  did  not  explain ;  wildly  re- 
proaching her  for  what  he  endured,  as  if  she 
had  not  been  far  the  most  unfortunate.  This 
tone  deprived  her  of  all  mastery  over  herself. 
Her  mind  was  disordered  by  the  most  fatal 
images  :  she  could  not  believe  that  the  being 
capable  of  writing  with  such  abrupt  and  heart- 
less bitterness  was  the  same  Oswald  she  had 
known  so  generous,  sb  tender.  She  felt  a 
resistless  desire  to  see  and  speak  with  him 
once  more.  "  Let  me  hear  him  tell  me,"  she 
cried,  "  that  it  is  he  who  thus  mercilessly 
stabs  her  whose  least  pain  once  so  strongly 
affected  him  ;  let  him  say  so,  and  I  submit : 
but  some  infernal  power  seems  to  inspire  Jhis 
language  ;  it  is  not  Oswald  who  writes  thus 
to  me.  They  have  slandered  me  to  him  : 
some  treachery  must  be  exerted,  or  I  could 
not  be  used  thus." 

One  day  Corinne  adopted  the  resolution  of 
going  to  Scotland,  if  we  may  so  call  the  im- 
pulse of  an  imperious  grief,  which  would  fain 
alter  its  present  situation  at  all  hazards.  She 
dared  not  write  nor  speak  to  any  one  on  this 
subject,  still  flattering  herself  that  some  for- 
tunate chance  would  prevent  her  acting  on  a 
plan  which,  nevertheless,  soothed  her  imagi- 
nation, and  forced  her  to  look  forward.  To 
read  was  now  impossible  :  music  thrilled  her 
to  agony  ;  and  the  charms  of  nature  induced 
a  reverie  that  redoubled  her  distress.  This 
creature,  once  so  animated,  now  passed  whole 
days  in  motionless  silence.  Her  internal 
pangs  were  but  betrayed  by  a  mortal  paleness  : 
her  eyes  were  frequently  fixed  upon  her  watch, 
though  she  knew  not  why  she  should  wish 
one  hour  to  succeed  another,  since  not  one  of 
them  could  bring  her  aught,  save  restless 
nights  and  despairing  days. 

One  evening  she  was  informed  that  a  fe- 
male was  earnestly  requesting  to  see  her  : 
she  consented  ;  and  the  weman  entered  her 
presence  dressed  in  black,  and  veiled,  to  con- 
ceal as  much  as  possible,  a  face  deformed  by 


•CORINNE;  OR,  ITALY. 


the  most  frightful  malady.  Thus  wronged  by 
nature,  she  consoled  herself  by  collecting 
alms  for  the  poor  ;  demanding  them  nobly, 
and  with  an  affecting  confidence  of  success. 
Corinne  gave  her  a  large  sum,  entreating  her 
prayers  in  return.  This  poor  being  who  was 
resigned  to  her  own  fate,  was  astonished  to 
behold  a  person  so  lovely,  young,  rich,  and 
celebrated,  a  prey  to  sorrow.  "  Would  to 
God,  madam  !"  she  cried,  "  you  were  as  calm 
as  I !"  What  an  address  from  such  an  object 
to  the  most  brilliant  woman  in  Italy,  thus 
sunk  down  in  despair  !  « 

Alas  !  the  power  of  love  is  too  vast  in  souls 
like  hers.s  Happy  are  they  who  consecrate 
to  heaven  the  sentiments  no  earthly  ties  can 
•merit.  That  time  was  not  yet  come  for  poor 
Corinne;  she  still  deceived  herself;  still 
sought  for  bliss  ;  she  prayed,  indeed,  but  not 
submissively.  Her  peerless  talents,  the  glory 
they  had  won,  gave  her  too  great  an  interest 
in  herself.  It  is  only  by  detaching  our  hearts 
from  all  that  is  in. the  world  that  we  can  re- 
nounce the  thing  we  love.  Every  other  sac- 
rifice must  precede  this :  life  may  be  long  a 
desert  ere  the  fire  that  made  it'  so  is 
quenched. 

At  last,  in  the  midst  of  this  sad  indecision, 
Corinne  received  a  letter  from  Oswald,  telling 
her  that  his  regiment  would  embark  in  six 
weeks,  and  that,  as  its  colonel,  he  could  not 
profii  by  this  delay  to  visit  Venice,  without 
injuring  his  reputation.  There  was  but  just 
time  for  Corinne  to  reach  England,  ere  he 
must  leave  it,  perhaps  for  evfer.  This  thought 
decided  her  ;  she  was  not  ignorant  of  her  own 
rashness ;  she  judged  herself  more  severely 
than  any  one  else  could.  Pity  her,  then! 
What  woman  has  a  right  to  "  cast  the  first 
stone'1''  at  the  unfortunate  sister,  who  justifies 
not  her  fault,  hopes  for  no  pleasure,  but  flies 
from  one  misfortune  to  another,  as  if  driven 
on  bv  persecuting  spirits  ? 

Her  letter  to  Castel  Forte  thus  concludes  : 
"  Adieu,  my  faithful  protector !  Adieu,  my 
friends  in  Rome !  with  whom  I  passed  such 
joyous,  easy  days.  It  is  done — all  is  over. 
Fate  has  stricken  me.  I  feel  the  wound  is 
mortal.  I  struggle  still,  but  soon  shall  fall. 
I  must  see  him  again.  I  am  not  answerable 
for  myself.  A  storm  is  in  my  breast  such  as 
I  cannot  govern  ;  but  I  draw  near  the  term 
at  which  all  will  cease.  This  is  the  last  act 
of  my  history  :  it  will  end  in  penitence  and 
death.  Oh,  wild  confusion  of  the  human 
heart !  Even  now,  while  I  am  obeying  the 
will  of  passion,  I  see  the  shades  of  evening  in 
the  distance,  I  hear  a  voice  divine  that  whis- 
pers me, — '  Still  these  fond  agitations,  hapless 
wretch !  the  abode  of  endless  rest  awaits  thee.' 
0  God!  grant  me  the  presence  of  mine  OsT 


wald  orrce  more,  but  one  last  moment !  The 
very  memory  of  his  features  now  is  darkened 
by  despair ;  but  is  there  not  something  hea- 
venly in  his  look  1  Did  not  the  air  become  • 
more  pure,  more  brilliant,  as  he  approached  < 
You,  my  friend,  have  seen  him  with  me,  have 
witnessed  his  kind  cares,  and  the  respect  with 
which  he  inspired  others  for  the  woman  of  Ins 
choice.  How  can  I  live  without  him  ]  Par- 
don my  ingratitude  :  ought  I  thus  to  requite 
thy  disinterested  constancy'?  But  I  am  no 
longer  worthy  any  blessing ;  and  might  pass 
for  insane,  had  I  not  still  the  miserable  con- 
sciousness of  my  own  madness.  Farewell, 
then — yes,  farewell !" 


CHAPTER  III. 

How  much  to  be  pitied  is  the  feeling,  deli- 
cate woman,  who  commits  a  great  imprudence 
for  a  man  whose  love  she  knows  inferior  to 
her  own !  She  has  none  hiit  herself  to  sup- 
port her.  If  she* had  risked  repose  and  cha- 
racter to  do'  some  sign-a  service  {•.  t  her  idol, 
she  may  be  envied.  iS-;veet  is  the  self-devotion 
that  braves  all  danger  '10  save  a  life  that  is 
dear  to  us,  or  solace  the  oistress  which  rends 
a  heart.responsive  to  our  own.  But  thus  to 
travel  unknown  lards,  to  arrive  witliout  being 
expected,  to  blush  before  the  one  beloved  for 
the  unasked,proof  thus  given  of  his  power, — 
painful  degradation  !  What  would  it  be  if  we 
thus  involved  the  happiness  of  others  1  Co- 
rinne was  free.  She  sacrificed  but  her  own 
peace  and  glory.  Her  conduct  was  irrational, 
imprudent  indeed,  but  if  could  overcloud  no 
destiny  save  her  own  ;  her  passion  was  fatal 
to  herself  alone. 

On  landing  in  England,  Corinne  learnt  from 
the  papers  that  Lord  Nelvil's  departure  was 
still  delayed.  She  saw  no  society  in  London 
except  the  family  of  a  Danker,  to  whom  she 
had  been  recommended  under  a  fictitious  name. , 
He  was  interested  in  her  at  first  sight,  and 
enjoined  his  wife  and  daughter  to  pay  her  all 
the  attentions  in  /their  power.  She  fell  dan- 
gerously ill  on  arriving,  and,  for  a  fortnight, 
her  new  /riends  watched  over  her  with  the 
most  tender  care.  She  heard  that  Lord  Xel- 
vil  was  in  Scotland,  but  must  shortly  rejoin 
his  regiment  in  London.  She  knew  not  how 
to  announce  herself,  as  she  had  not  written  to 
him  respecting  her  intentions — indeed  Oswald 
had  received  no  letter  from  her  for  three 
months.  He  mentally  accused  her  of  infidel- 


CORINNE;    OR,  ITALY.' 


139 


ity.  as  if  he  had  any  right  to  complain.  On 
his  return  to  tovTn,  he  first  went  to  his  agents, 
where  he  hoped  to  find  let'ers  from  Italy : 
there  were  none  ;  and,  as  he  was  musing  over 
this  silence,  he  encountered  .Mr.  Edgarmond, 
who  asked  him  for  news  of  Corinne.  "  I  hear 
nothing  of  her, '  he  replied,  irritably.  "  That 
I  can  easily  understand,"  added  Edgarmond  : 
"  these  Italian's  always  forget  a  foreigner,  once 
out  of  sight :  one  ought  never  to  heed  it :  they 
would  be  too  delightful  if  they  united  constan- 
cy with  genius :  it  is  but  fair  that  our  own 
women  should  have  some  advantage  !"  He 
squeezed  Oswald's  hand  as  he  said  this,  and 
took  leave,  as  he  was  just  starting  for  Wales  ; 
but  his  few  words  had  pierced  their  hearer's 
heart.  "  I  am  wrong,"  he  said,  "  to  wish  she 
should  regret  me,  since  I  cannot  constitute 
her  happiness  :  but  so  soon  to  forget !  This 
blights  the  past  as  well  as  the  future." 

Despite  his  father's  will,  he  had  resolved 
not  to  see  Lucy  more ;  and  even  scorned  him- 
self for  the  impression  she  had  made  on  him. 
Condemned  as  he  was  to  defeat  the  hopes  of 
Corinne,  hj  felt  that,  at  least,  he  ought  to 
preserve  his  heart's  faith  inviolately  hers  :  no 
duty  urged  him  to  forfeit  that.  He  renewed 
his"  solicitations  in  her  cause,  by  letters  to 
Lady  Edgarmond,  who  did  not  even  deign  to 
answer  them  :  meanwhile  Mr.  Dickson  assured 
him  that  the  only  way  of  melting  her  to  his 
wishes  would  be — marrying  her  daughter ;  for 
she  feared  Corinne  might  frustrate  this  union, 
if  she  resumed  her  name,  and  was  received  by 
her  family.  Fate  had  hitherto  spared  Corinne 
the  pang  of  suspecting  Oswald's  interest  in 
her  sister.  Never  was  she  herself  more  wur- 
thy  of  him  than  at  this  period  of  their  separa- 
tion. The  candid,  honest-hearted  people  by 
whom  she  was  surrounded  in  her  illness,  had 
given  her  a  sincere  taste  for  English  habits 
and  manners.  The  few  persons  she  saw  were 
anything  but  distinguished,  yet  possessed  re- 
markable strength  and  correctness  of  mind. 
Their  affection  for  her  was  less  professing 
than  that  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed, 
but  evinced  with  every  opportunity  by  fresh 
good  offices.  The  austerity  of  Lady  Edgar- 
mond, the  tedium  of  a  small  country  town, 
had  cruelly  misled  her  as  to  the  kindness,  the 
true  nobility  to  be  found  in  the  country  she 
had  abandoned  :  unluckily  she  now  became 
attached  to  it  under  circumstances  that  it 
would  have  been  better  for  her  own  peace  had 
she  never  been  untaught  her  dislike. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  banker's  family,  who  were  for  ever 
studying  how  to  prove  their  friendship,  pressed 
Corinne  to  see  Mrs.  Siddons  perform  Isabella, 
in  the  Fatal  Marriage,  one  of  the  characters" 
in  which  that  great  actress  best  displayed  her 
admirable  genius.  Corinne  refused  for  some 
time  :'  at  last  she  remembered  that  Lord  Nel- 
vil  had  often  compared  her  manner  of  recita- 
tion with  that  of  Mrs.  Siddons  ;  she  was 
therefore  anxious  to  see  her,  and,  thickly 
veiled,  went  to  a  small  box,  whence  she  could 
see  all,  herself  unseen.  She  knew  not  if  Os- 
wald was  in  London,  but  feared  to  be  recog- 
nized by  any  one  who  might  have  met  her  in 
Italy.  The  commanding  beauty  and  deep 
sensibility  of  the  heroine  so  riveted  her  atten-, 
tion,  that,  during  the  earliest  acts,  her  eyes 
were  never  turned  from  the  stage. 

English  declamation  is  better  calculated 
than  any  other  to  touch  the  soul,  especially 
when  such  fine  talents  give  it  all  its  power  and 
originality.  It  is  less  artificial,  less  conven- 
tional, than  that  of  France.  The  impressions 
produced  are  more  immediate — for  thus  would 
true  despair  express  itself :  the  plots  and  ver- 
sification of  English  dramas  too  are  less  re- 
mote from  real  life,  and  their  effect  more 
heart-rending.  It  requires  far  higher  genius 
to  become  a  great  actor  in  France,  so  little 
liberty  being  left  to  individual  manner,  so 
much  influence  attached*  to  general  rules  (33) ; 
but  in  England  you  may  risk  anything,  if  in- 
spired by  nature.  The  long  groans  that  ap- 
pear ridiculous  if  described,  make  those  shud- 
der who  hear  them.  Mrs.  Siddons,  the  most 
nobly  mannered  woman  who  ever  adorned  a 
theatre,  lost  none  of  her  dignity  by  prostrating 
herself  qn  the  earth.  There  is  no  action  but 
may  become  graceful,  if  prompted  by  an  im- 
pulse, which  rises  from  the  depths  of  the 
breast,  and  lords  it  over  the  mind  which  con- 
ceives it,  still  more  than  over  its  witnesses. 
Various  nations  have  their  different  styles  of 
tragic  acting,  but  the  expression  of  grief  is 
understood  from  one  end  of  the  world  to  the 
other  ;  and,  from  the  savage  to  the  king,  there 
jp  some  similarity  between  all  men  while  they 
are  really  suffering. 

Between  the  fourth  and  fifth  acts,  Corinne 
observed  that  all  eyes  were  turned  towards  a 
box,  in  which  she  beheld  Lady  Edgarmond 
and  her  daughter  :  she  could  not  doubt  that  it 
was  Lucy,  much  as.  the  last  seveji  years  had 
embellished  her  form.  The  death  of  a  rich 
relation  had  obliged  Lady  Edgarmond  to  visit 
London,  and  settle  the  succession  of  his  for- 
tune. Lucy  was  full  dressed  ;  and  it  was 
long  since  so  beauteous  a  girl  had  l»e"en  seen, 
even  in  England,  where  the  women  are  so 


140 


CORIXNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


lovely.  Corinne  felt  a  melancholy  surprise  : 
she  thought  it  impossible  for  Oswald  to  resist 
that  countenance.  On  comparing  herself  with 
her  sister  she  was  so  conscious  of  her  own 
inferiority,  that  she  exaggerated  (if  such  ex- 
aggeration be  possible)  the  charm  of  that  fair 
complexion,  those  golden  curls,  and  innocent 
blue  eyes — that  image  of  life's  spring  !  She 
felt  almost  degraded  in  setting  her  ownmerita! 
acquirements  in  competition  with  gifts  thus 
lavished  by  Heaven  itself. 

Suddenly,  in  an  opposite  box,  she  perceived 
Lord  Nelvil,  whose  gaze  was  fixed  on  Lucy. 
What  a  moment  for  Corinne  !  She  once  more 
beheld  that  face,  for  which  she  so  long  search- 
ed her  memory  every  instant,  as  if  the  image 
could  ever  be  effaced — she  beheld  it  again — 
absorbed  by  the  beauty  of  another.  Oswald 
could  not  have  suspected  the  presence  of  Co- 
rinne ;  but  if  his  eyes  had  even  wandered  to- 
wards her,  she  might,  from  such  a  chance, 
have  drawn  a  happy  omen.  Mrs.  Siddons  re- 
appeared, and  Lord  Nelvil  looked  but  on  her. 
Corinne  breathed  again,  trusting  that  mere 
curiosity  had  drawn  his  glance  towards  Lucy. 
The  tragedy  became  every  moment  more  af- 
fecting ;  and  the  fair  girl  was  bathed  in  tears, 
which  she  strove  to  conceal,  by  retiring  to  the 
back  of  her  box.  Nelvil  noticed  this  with 
increased  interest.  At  last  the  dreadful  in- 
stant came  when  Isabella,  "laughing  at  the 
fruitless  efforts  of  those  who  would  restrain 
her,  stabs  herself  to  the  heart.  That  despair- 
ing laugh  is  the  most  difficult  and  powerful 
effect  which  tragic  acting  can  produce  :  its 
bitter  irony  moves  one  to  more  than,  tears. 
How  terrible  must  be  the  suffering  that  inspires 
so  barbarous  a  joy,  and,  in  the  sight  of  our 
own  blood,  feels  the  ferocious  pleasure  that  no 
one  might  experience  when  taking  full  revenge 
upon  some  savage  foe.  It  was  evident  that 
Lucy's  agitation  had  alarmed  her  mother,  who 
turned  anxiously  towards  her.  Oswald  rose, 
as  if  he  would  have  flown  to  them ;  but  he 
soon  reseated  himself,  and  Corinne  felt  some 
relief;  yet  she  sighed, — "My  sister  Lucy, 
once  so  dear  to  me,  has  a  feeling  heart ;  why 
should  I  then  wish  to  deprive  her  of  a  blessing 
she  may  enjoy  without  impediment,  without 
any  sacrifice  on  Oswald's  part?" 

When  the  play  concluded.  Corinne  stayed 
until  the  parties  who  were  leaving  the  house 
had  gone,  that  she  might  avoid  recognition  : 
she  concealed  herself  near  the  door  of  her 
box.  where  she  could  see  what  passed  near 
her.  As  soon  as  Lucy  came  out,  a  crowd 
assembled  to  look  on  her ;  and  exclamations 
in  praise  of  her  beauty  were  heard  from  all 
sides,  which  greatly  embarrassed  her :  the  in- 
firm Lady  Edgarmond  was  ill  able  to  brave 
the  throng,  in  spite  of  the  cares  of  her  child,  and 


the  politeness  shown  them  both ;  but  they 
j  knew  no  one,  therefore  no  gentleman  dared  jl 
'  accost  them.  Lord  Nelvil,  seeing  their  situa-  ' 
tion,  hastened  to  offer  each  an  arm.  Lu-y. 
blushing  and  downcast,  availed  herself  of  tins 
attention.  They  passed  close  by  Corinne  ; 
Oswald  little  suspected  that  his  poor  friend 
was  witnessing  a  sight  so  painful  to  her :  for 
he  enjoyed  the  pride  of  thus  escorting  one  of 
the  handsomest  girls  in  England  through  the 
numerous  admirers  who  followed  her  steps. 


CHAPTER  V. 

CORINXE  returned  to  her  dwelling  in  cruel 
disquiet ;  not  knowing  what  steps  to  take,  how  i 
to  apprise  Nelvil  of  her  arrival,  nor  what  to  ' 
say  in  defence  of  her  motives ;  for  every  in-  • 
stant  decreased  her  confidence  in^his  love  :  it 
seemed  sometimes  as  if  it  were  some  stranger  j 
that  she   sought,  some  passionately  beloved  ; 
stranger,  who  could  not  even  recognize  her.  • 
She  sent  to  his  house  the  next  evening,  and  \ 
was  informed  that  he  had  gone  to  Lady  Ed-  '. 
garmond's  ;  the  same  answer  was  brought  her 
on  the  following  day,  with  tidings  that  her  j 
ladyship  was  ill,  and  would  return  to  North- 
umberland on  her  recovery.     Corinne  waited 
for  her  removal  ere  she  let  Oswald  know  she  ' 
was  in  England.     Every  evening  she  walked  i 
by  her  step-mother's  residence,  and  saw  his 
carriage  at  its  door.     An  inexpressible  oppres-  ' 
sion  seized  on  her  heart ;  yet  she  dailv  per-  j 
severed,  and  daily  received  the  same  shock,  i 
She  erred,  however,  in  supposing  that  Oswald  j 
was  there  as  the  suitor  of  Lucy. 

As  he  led  Lady  Edgarmond  to  her  carriage, 
after  the  play,  she  told  him  that  Corinne  was 
concerned  in  the  will  of  their  late  kinsman  ; 
and  begged  that  he  would  write  to  Italy  on 
the  arrangements  made  in  this  affair.  As 
Oswald  promised  to  call,  he  fancied  he  felt  the 
hand  of  Lucy  tremble.  Corinne's  silence  per- 
suaded him  that  he  was  no  longer  dear  to  her  ; 
and  the  emotion  of  this  young  girl  gave  him 
the  idea  that  she  was  interested  in  him.  Yet 
he  thought  not  of  breaking  his  promise  to  Co- 
rinne :  the  ring  she  held  was  a  pledge  that  he 
would  never  marry  another  without  her  con- 
sent. He  sought  her  step-mother  next  day, 
merely  on  her  account ;  but  Lady  Edgarmond 
was  so  ill,  and  her  daughter  so  uneasy  at  find- 
ing herself  in  London  without  another  rela- 
tive near  her,  without  even  knowing  to  what 
physician  she  should  apply,  that,  in  duty  to 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


the  friends  of  his  father,  Oswald  felt  he  ought 
to  devote  his  time  to  their  service. 

The  cold,  proud  Lady  Edgarmond  had  never 
softened  so  much  as  she  did  now ;  letting  him 
visit  h§r  every  day  without  his  having  said  a 
word  that  could  be  construed  into  a  proposal 
foi  her  daughter,  whose  beauty,  rank,  and  for- 
tune, rendered  her  one  of  the  first  matches  in 
England.  Since  her  appearance  in  public, 
her  address  had  been  eagerly  inquired,  and  her 
door  besieged  by  the  most  distinguished  per- 
sons in  the  kingdom ;  yet  her  mother  went 
nowhere, — received  no  one  but  Lord  Nelvil. 
Could  he  avoid  feeling  flattered  by  this  silent 
and  delicate  generosity,  which  trusted  him 
without  conditions,  without  complaint  1  yet 
every  time  he  went  did  he  fear  that  his  pre- 
sence would  be  interpreted  into  an  engage- 
ment. He  would  have  ceased  to  go  thither 
as  soon  as  Corinne's  business  was  settled  :  but 
that  Lady  Edgarmond  underwent  a  relapse, 
more  dangerous  than  her  first  attack  ;  and  had 
she  died,  Lucy  would  have  had  no  friend  be- 
side her  but  himself.  She  had  never  breathed 
a  word  that  could  assure  him  of  her  prefer- 
ence ;  yet  he  fancied  he  detected  it  in  the 
light  but  sudden  changes  of  her  cheek,  the 
abrupt  fall  of-  her  lashes,  and  the  ra'pidity  of 
her  breathing.  He  studied  her  young  heart 
with  tender  interest ;  and  her  reserve  left  him 
always  uncertain  as  to  the  nature  of  her  sen- 
timents. The  highest  eloquence  of  passion 
cannot  entirely  satisfy  the  fancy  :  we  desire 
something  beyond  it ;  and  not  finding  that, 
must  either  cool  or  sate ;  while  the  faint  light 
which  we  perceive  through  clouds,  long  keeps 
our  curiosity  in.  suspense,  and  seems  to  pro- 
mise a  whole  future  of  new  discoveries  :  this 
expectation  is  never  gratified  :  for  when  we 
know  what  all  this  mystery  hid,  its  charm  is 
gone,  and  we  awake  to  regret  the  candid  im- 
pulses of  a  more  animated  character.  How 
then  can  we  prolong  the  heart's  enchantment, 
since  doubt  and  confidence,  rapture  and  mise- 
ry, alike  destroy^it  in  the  end  ?  These  hea- 
venly joys  belong  not  to  our  fate  :  they  never 
cross  our  path,  save  to  remind  us  of  our  im- 
mortal origin  and  hopes. 

Lady  Edgarmond  was  better ;  and  talked 
of  departing,  ir.  two  days,  for  her  estate  in 
Scotland,  near  that  of  Lord  Nelvil,  whither 
he  had  purposed  going  before  the  embarkation 
of  his  regiment. :  she  anticipated  his  proposing 
to  accompany  her,  but  he  said  nothing.  Lucy 
gazed  on  him  in  silence  for  a  moment,  then 
hastily  rose,  and  went  to  the  window  :  on 
some  pretext  Nelvil  shortly  followed  her,  and 
fancied  that  her  lids  were  wet  with  tears  :  he 
sighed,  and  the  forgetfulness  of  which  he  had 
accused  Corinne  returning  to  his  memory,  he 
asked  himself  whether  this  young  creature 


might  not  prove  more  capable  of  constant 
love !  He  wished  to  atone  for  the  pain  he 
had  inflicted.  It  is  delightful  to  rekindle 
smiles  on  a  countenance  so  nearly  infantine. 
Grief  is  out  of  place,  where  even  reflection 
has  yet  left  no  trace.  There  was  to  be  a  re- 
view in  Hyde  Park  on  the  morrow  :  he  there- 
fore entreated  Lady  Edgarmond  to  drive  there 
with  her  daughter,  and  afterwards  permit  his 
riding  on  horseback  with  Lucy  beside  her  car- 
riage. Miss  Edgarmond  had  said  that  she 
was  fond  of  this  exercise,  and  looked  at  her 
mother  with  -appealing  submission :  after  a 
little  deliberation,  the  invalid  held  out  her 
wasted  hand  to  Oswald,  saying, — "  If  you 
request  it,  my  lord,  I  consent."  These  words 
so  alarmed  him,  that  he  would  have  abandoned 
his  own  proposal ;  but  that  Lucy,  with  a  viva- 
city she  had  never  before  betrayed,  took  her 
mother'^  hand,  and  kissed  it  gratefully.  He 
had  not  the  courage  to  deprive  an  innocent 
being,  who  led  so  lonely  a  life,  of  an  amuse- 
ment she  so  much  desired. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

FOR  a  fortnight  Corinne  had  endured  the 
severest  "anxiety  ;  every  morning  she  hesitat- 
ed whether  she  should  write  to  Oswald  ;  ev- 
ery evening  she  had  the  inexpressible  grief  of 
knowing  that  he  was  with  Lucy.  Her  suffer- 
ings made  her  daily  more  timid  :  she  blushed 
to  think  that  he  might  not  approve  the  step 
she  had  taken.  "  Perhaps,"  she  often  said, 
"  all  thought  of  Italy  is  banished  from  his. 
breast :  he  no  longer  needs  in  woman  a  gifted 
mind  or  an  impassioned  heart  ;  all  that  can 
please  him  now  is  the  angelic  beauty  of  six- 
teen, the  fresh  and  diffident  soul  that  conse- 
crates to  him  its  first  emotions." 

Her  imagination  was  so  stricken  with  the 
advantages  of  her  young  sister  that  she  was 
abashed,  disarmed,  depreciatingly  discouraged 
with  herself.  Though  not  yet  eight-and- 
twenty,  she  had  already  reached  that  era 
when  women  sadly  distrust  their  power  to 
please.  Her  pride  and  jealousy  contending, 
made  her  defer  from  day  to  day  the  dreaded 
yet  desired  moment  of  her  meeting  with  Os- 
wald. She  learned  that  his  regiment  would 
oe  reviewed,  and  resolved  on  being  present. 
She  thought  it  prqbable  that  Lucy  would  be 
there  :  if  so,  she  would  trust  her  own  eyes 
to  judge  the  state  of  Nelvil's  heart.  At  iirst 
she  thought  of  dressing  herself  with  care, 


142 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


and  suddenly  appearing  before  him  ;  but  at 
her  toilet,  her  black  hair,  her  skin  slightly 
embrowned  by  the  Italian  sun,  her  prominent 
features,  all  discouraged  her.  She  remem- 
bered the  ethereal  aspect  of  her  sister  ;  and, 
throwing  aside  her  rich  array,  assumed  a  black 
"Venetian  garb,  covered  her  head  and  figure 
with  the  mantle  worn  in  that  country,  and 
threw  herself  into  a  coach.  In  Hyde"  Park 
she  found  groups  of  gentlemen,  attired  with 
simple  elegance,  escorting  their  fair  and  mo- 
dest ladies.  The  virtues  proper  to  each  sex 
seemed  thus  to  meet. 

Scarcely  was  she  there  ere  she  beheld  Os- 
wald at  the  head  of  his  corps  :  its  men  looked 
up  to  him  with  confidence  and  respect.  The 
uniform  lent  him  a  more  imposing  air  than 
usual,  and  he  reined  his  charger  with  perfectly 
graceful  dexterity.  The  band  played  pieces 
of  music  at  once  bold  and  sweet,  which 
seemed  nobly  enjoining  the  sacrifice  of  life  : 
among  them  "  God  save  the  King,"  so  dear 
to  English  hearts  ;  and  Corinne  exclaimed, 
"  Respected  land  !  which  ought  to  be  my  own  ! 
why  did  I  ever  leave  thee  1  What  matters 
more  or  less  of  personal  fame,  amid  so  much 
true  merit  ?  and  what  glory  could  equal  that 
of  being  called  Lord  Nelvil's  worthy  wife  1" 

The  martial  instruments  recalled  to  her 
mind  the  perils  he  must  brave  so  soon.  Un- 
seen by  him  she  gazed  through  her  tears, 
sighing,  "  Oh,  may  he  live,  though  it  be  not 
for  me  !  My  God  !  it  is  Oswald  only  I  im- 
plore thee  to  preserve  !"  At  this  *moment, 
Lady  Edgarmond's  carriage  drove  up.  Nel- 
vil  bowed  respectfully,  and  lowered  the  point 
of  his  sword.  No  one  who  looked  on  Lucy 
but  admired  her  :  Oswald's  glances  pierced 
the  heart  of  Corinne  :  she  knew  their  mean- 
ing well,  for  such  had  once  been  bent  on  her. 
The  horses  he  had  provided  for  Lady  Edgar- 
mond  passed  to  and  fro  with  exquisite  speed, 
while  the  equipage  of  Corinne  was  drawn 
after  these  flying  coursers  almost  as  slowly 
as  a  hearse.  "  It  was  not  thus,"  she  thought, 
"  that  I  approached  the  Capitol  :  no  ;  he  has 
dashed  me  from  njy  car  of  triumph  into  an 
abyss  of  misery.  1  love  him,  and  the  joys  of 
life  are  lost.  I  love  him,  and  the  gifts  of  na- 
ture fade.  Pardon  him,  oh,  my  God  !  when 
I  am  gone."  Oswald  was  now  close  to  her 
vehicle.  The  Italian  dress  caught  his  eye, 
and  he  rode  round,  in  hopes  of  beholding  the 
face  of  this  unknown.  Her  heart  beat  vio- 
lently ;  and  all  her  fear  was  that  she  should 
faint  and  be  discovered  ;  but  she  restrained 
her  feelings;  and  Lord  Nelvil  relinquished 
the  idea  which  had  seized  him.  When  the 
review  was  over,  to  avoid  again  attracting  his 
attention,  she  alighted,  and  retired  behind  the 
trees,  so  as  not  to  be  observed.  Oswald  then 


went  up  to  Lady  Edgarmond,  and  showed 
her  a  very  gentle  horse,  which  his  servants 
had  brought  thither  for  Lucy  :  her  mother 
consented,  and  bade  him  be  very  careful  of 
her.  He  dismounted,  and,  hat  in  hand,  con- 
versed through  the  carriage  door  with  so  feel- 
ing an  expression,  that  Corinne  could  attri- 
bute this  regard  for  the  mother  to  nothing  less 
than  an  attachment  for  the  daughter.  Lucy 
left  the  carriage  :  a  riding  habit  charmingly 
defined  the  elegant  outline  of  her  figure  :  she 
wore  a  black  hat  with  white  plumes, — her 
fair  silken  locks  floating  airily  about  her  smil- 
ing face.  Oswald  placed  his  hand  as  her 
step  :  she  had  expected  this  service  from  a 
domestic,  and  blushed  at  receiving  it  from 
him  ;  but  he  insisted,  and,  at  last,  she  sat  her 
little  foot  in  his  hand,  then  sprang  so  lightly 
to  her  saddle,  that  she  seemed  one  of  those 
sylphid  shapes  which  fancy  paints  in  colors 
so  delicate.  She  started  at  a  rapid  pace. 
Oswald  followed,  never  losing  sight  of  her  : 
once  the  horse  made  a  false  step  :  he  instantly 
checked  it,  examining  the  bit  and  bridle  with 
the  most  kind  solicitude.  Shortly  afterwards 
he  conjectured  that  she  had  lost  her  command 
of  the  animal.  Oswald  turned  pale  as  death, 
spurring  his  own  steed  to  an  incredible  fleet- 
ness  ;  in  a  second  he  overtook  that  of  L-icy, 
leaped  from  his  seat,  and  threw  himself  be- 
fore her.  She  shuddered  in  her  turn  lest  she 
should  harm  him  ;  but  with  one  arm  he  seized 
her  rein,  supporting  her  with  the  other,  while 
in  dismounting  she  gently  leaned  against  him. 
What  more  needed  Corinne  to  convince  her 
of  Oswald's  love  for  Lucy  ]  Did  she  not  see 
all  the  signs  of  interest  which  formerly  he 
lavished  on  herself?  Nay,  to  her  eternal  de- 
spair, did  she  not  read  in  his  eyes  a  more  re- 
vering deference  than  he  had  ever  shown  to 
her  1  Twice  she  drew  the  ring  from  her  fin- 
ger, and  was  ready  to  break  through  the 
crowd,  that  she  might  throw  it  at  his  feet : 
the  hope  of  dying  in  this  effort  encouraged 
her  resolution  ;  but  where  is  the  woman,  even 
born  beneath  a  southern  sky,  who  does  not 
tremble  at  attracting  the  attention  of  a  crowd  1 
She  was  returning  to  her  coach  ;  and,  as  she 
crossed  a  somewhat  deserted  walk'  Oswald 
again  noticed  the  black  figure  he  before  had 
seen  ;  and  it  now  made  a  stronger  impression 
on  him  than  at  first :  he  attributed  his  emo- 
tion to  remorse,  at  having,  for  the  first  time, 
felt  his  heart  faithless  to  the  image  of  Co- 
rinne ;  and  when  he  returned  home  he  took 
the  resolution  of  starting  for  Scotland,  as  his 
regiment  was  not  to  embark  for  some  time. 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

FROM  this  moment  Corinne's  reason  was 
affected,  and  her  strength  decayed.  She  be- 
£an  a  letter  to  Lord  Nelvil,  full  of  bitter  up- 
>raidings,  and  then  tore  it  up.-  "  What  avail 
reproaches  ?"  she  thought :  "  could  love  be 
the  most  pure,  most  generous  of  our  senti- 
ments, if  it  were  not  wholly  free  !  Another 
Pace,  another  voice,  command  the  secret  of 
his  heart  :  all  is  said  that  can  be  said."  She 
began  a  new  letter,  depicting  the  monotony 
he  would  find  in  an  union  with  Lucy  ;  essayed 
to  prove  that  without  a  perfect  harmony  of 
soul  and  mind  no  happiness  could  last ;  but 
she  destroyed  this  paper  more  hastily  than 
the.  other.  "  If  he  already  knows  not  my 
opinions,  I  cannot  teach  him  now,"  she  said  ; 
'  besides,  ought  I  to  speak  thus  of  my  sister? 
is  she  so  greatly  my  inferior  as  I  think  ?  and, 
if  she  be,  is'  it  for  me,  who,  like  a  mother, 
pressed  her  in  childhood  to  my  heart  to  point 
out  her  deficiencies  ?  no,  no !  we  must  not 
thus  value  our  own  inclinations  above  all 
price.  This  life,  full  as  it  is  of  wishes,  must 
have  an  end:  and  even  before  death  comes, 
meditation  may  wean  us  from  its  selfishness." 
Once  more  she  resumed  her  pen,  to*  tell  but 
of  her  misery  ;  yet,  in  expressing  it,  she  felt 
such  pity  for  herself,  that  her  tears  flowed 
over  every  word.  "  No,"  she  said  again,  "  I 
cannot  send  this  :  if  he  resisted  it,  I  should 
hate  him  ;  if  he  yielded,  how  know  I  but  it 
would  be  by  a  sacrifice,  after  which  he  would 
be  haunted  by  the  memory  of  another  ?  I 
had  better  see  him,  speak  with  him,  and  re- 
turn his  ringr."  She  folded  it  in  paper,  on 
which  she  only,  wrote,  "  Ypu  are  free ;"  and, 
putting  it  in  her  bosom,  awaited  the  evening 
ere  she  could  approach.  In  open  day  she 
would  have  blushed  before  all  she  met ;  and 
yet  she  sought  to  anticipate  the  moment  of 
his  visit  to  Lady  Edgarmond.  At  six  o'clock, 
therefore,  she  set  forth,  trembling  like  a  con- 
demned criminal, — we  so  much  fear  those  we 
love,  when  once  our  confidence  is  lost.  The 
object  of  a  passionate  affection  is,  in  the  eye? 
of  woman,  either  her  surest  protector  or  most 
dreaded  master.  Corinne  stopped  her  equi- 
page at  Lord  Nelvil's  door,  and  in  a  hesitating 
voice  asked  the  porter  if  he  was  at  home  : 
but  the  man  replied, — "My  Lord  set  out  for 
Scotland  half  an  hour  ago,  madame."  This 
intelligence  pressed  heavily  on  her  heart : 
,  she  had  shrunk  froro  the  thought  of  meeting 
I  Oswald,  but  her  soul  had  surmounted  that  in- 
expressible emotion.  The  effort  was  made  : 
she  believed  herself  about  to  hear  his  voice, 
and  now  must  take  some  new  resolution  ere 
she  could  regain,  it :  wait  some  days  longer, 
and  stoop  to  one  'step  more.  Yet,  at  all  haz- 


ards, she  must  see  him  again  ,  and  the 
day  she  departed  for  Scotland. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ERE  quitting  London,  Nelvil  again  called 
on  his  agents  ;  and,  on  finding  no  letter  from 
Corinne,  bitterly  asked  himself  if  he  ought  to 
give  up  the  certainty  of  permanent  domestic 
peace  for  one  who  no  longer  remembered 
him.  Yet  he  decided  on  writing  once  more, 
to  inquire  the  cause  of  this  silence,  and  assure 
her,  that,  till  she  sent  back  his  ring,  he  would 
never  be  the  husband  of  another.  He  com- 
pleted his  journey  in  a  very  gloomy  mood, 
loving  Lucy  almost  unconsciously,  for  he  had, 
as  yet,  scarcely  lieard  her  speak  twenty 
words — yet  regretting  Corrinne,  and  the  cir- 
cumstances which  separated  him  from  her, 
by  fits  yielding  to  the  innocent  beauty  of  the 
one,  and  retracing  the  brilliant  grace  and 
sublime  eloquence  of  the  other.  Had  he  but 
known  that  Corinne  loved  him  better  than 
ever,  and  had  quitted  everything  to  follow 
him,  he  would  never  have  seen  Lucy  more  ; 
but  he  believed  himself  forgotten,  and  told  his 
heart  that  a  cool  manner  might  oft  conceal 
deep  feelings.  He  was  deceived.  Impas- 
sioned spirits  must  betray  themselves  a  thou- 
sand ways  :  that  which  can  always  be  con- 
trolled must  needs  be  weak. 

Another  event  added  to  his  interest  in 
Lucy.  In  returning  to  his  estate,  he  passed 
so  near  her  mother's  that  curiosity  urged 
him  to  visit  it.  He  asked  to  be  shown  the 
room  in  which  Miss  Edgarmond  usually  stu- 
died :  it  was  filled  by  remembrances  of  the 
time  his  father  had  passed  there  during  his 
own  absence  in  France.  On  the  spot  where, 
a  few  months  before  his  death,  the  late  Lord 
Nelvil  had  given  her  lessons,  Lucy  had 
erected  a  marble  pedes^.1,  on  which  was 
graven,  "  To  the  memory  of  my  second 
lather.''  A  book  lay  on  the  table.  Oswald 
opened  it,  and  found  a  collection  of  his  father's 
thoughts,  whon  in  the  first  page,  had  written, 
"  To  her  who  has  solaced  me  in  my  sorrows ; 
the  maid  whose  angelic  soul  will  constitute 
the  glory  and  happiness  of  her  husband.*' 
With  what  emotion  Oswald  read  these  lines ! 
in  which  the  opinion  of  the  revered  dead  was 
so  warmly  expressed.  He  interpreted  Lucy's 
silence  on  this  subject  into  a  delicacy  which 
feared  to  extort  his  vows  by  any  idea  of  duty. 
"  It  was  she,  then,"  he  cried,  "  who  softened 
the  pangs  I  dealt  him ;  and  shall  I  desert  her 


144 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


while  her  mother  is  dying,  and  she  has  no 
comforter  but  myself!  Ah,  Corinne :  bril- 
,liant  and  admired  as  thou  art,  thou  dost  not, 
like  Lucy,  stand  in  need  of  one  devoted 
friend  !"  Alas !  she  was  no  longer  brilliant, 
no  longer  admired,  that  Corinne  who  was 
wandering  from  town  to  town,  without  even 
gaining  sight  of  the  being  for  whom  she  had 
lost  all,  and  whom  she  had  not  the  strength  to 
avoid..  She  was  taken  ill  at  an  inn  haif-way 
between  London  and  Edinburgh,  and,  in  spite 
of  all  her  efforts,  was  unable  to  continue  he* 
journey.  She  often  thought,  during  her  long 
nights  of  suffering,  that  if  she  died  there  none 
but  Theresina  would  know  the  name  to  be 
inscribed  upon  her  tomb.  What  a  changed 
fate  for  the  woman  who  could  not  leave  her 
house  in  Italy  without  being  followed  by  a 
host  of  worshippers  !  Why  should  one  single 
feeling  thus  despoil  a  whole  life  ?  After  a 
week  of  intense  agony,  she  resumed  her  route  : 
so  many  painful  fears  mingled  with  the  hope 
of  seeing  Oswald,  that  her  expectation  was 
but  a  sad  anxiety.  She  designed  to  rest  a 
few  hours  on  her  father's  land,  where  his 
tomb  had  been  erected,  never  having  been 
there  since  ;  indeed,  she  only  spent  one  month 
on  this  estate  with  Lord  Edgarmond,  the  hap- 
piest portion  of  her  stay  in  England.  These 
recollections  inspired  her  with  a  wish  to  revisit 
their  scene.  She  knew  not  that  her  step- 
mother was  there  already. 

Some  miles  from  the  house,  Corinne  per- 
ceived that  a  carriage  had  been  overturned. 
She  stopped  her  own,  and  saw  an  old  gentle- 
man extricated  from  that  which  had  broken 
down,  much  alarmed  by  the  shock.  Corinne 
hurried  to  his  assistance,  and  offered  him  a 
share  of  her  conveyance  to  the  neighboring 
town  :  he  accepted  it  gratefully,  announcing 
himself  as  Mr.  Dickson :  she  remembered 
that  Nelvil  had  often  mentioned  that  name, 
and  directed  the  conversation  to  the  only  sub- 
ject which  interested  her  in  life.  Mr.  Dick- 
|  son  was  the  most  communicative  man  in  the 
j  world ;  and,  ignorant  who  his  companion  was, 
j  believed  her  an  English  lady,  with  no  private 
I  interest  in  the  questions  she  asked,  therefore 
told  her  all  he  knew  most  minutely  :  her  atten- 
tions had  conciliated  him  ;  and,  in  return,  he 
trusted  that  his  confidence  might  entertain 
her.-  He  described  how  he  had  informed 
Lord  Nelvil  of  his  parent's  wishes,  and  re- 
peated an  extract  from  the  late  lord's  letter, 
often  exclaiming,  "  His  father  expressly  for- 
bade Oswald's  marriage  with  this  Italian, — 
and  they  cannot  brave  his  will  without  insult- 
ing his  memory."  Mr.  Dickson  added,  that 
Oswald  loved  Lucy,  was  beloved  by  her  ;  that 
her  mother  strongly  desired  their  union,  but 
that  this  foreign  engagement  prevented  it. 


"  How  !"  said  Corinne,  striving  to  disguise 
her  agitation  :  "  do  you  think  that  the  sole 
barrier  to  his  happiness  with  Miss  Edgar- 
mond V  "I  aai  sure  of  it,"  he  answered, 
delighted  at  her  inquiries.  "  It  is  but  three 
days  since  Lord  Nelvil  said  to  me,  '  If  I  were 
free,  I  would  marry  Lucy.'  "  "  If  he  were 
free !"  sighed  Corinne.  At  that  moment  the 
carriage  stopped  at  the  hotel  to  which  she 
had  promised  Mr.  Dickson  her  escort.  He 
thanked  her,  and  begged  to  know  where  he 
might  see  her  again.  She  wrung  his  hand, 
without  power  to"  speak,  and  left  him.  Late 
as  it  was,  she  resolved  that  evening  to  visit 
the  grave  of  her  father.  The  disorder  of  her 
mind  rendered  this  sacred  pilgrimage  more 
necessary  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LADY  EDGARMOND  had  been  two  days  on 
her  estate,  where,  that  night,  she  had  invited 
all  her  neighbors  and  tenants  ;  and  there  was 
Oswald  with  Lucy,  %vhen  Corinne  arrived. 
She  saw  many  carriages  in  the  avenue ;  and 
alighted  on  the  spot  where  her  father  had 
once  treated  her  with  such  tenderness.  What 
a  contrast  between  those  days,  when  she  had 
thought  herself  so  unfortunate,  and  her  pre- 
sent situation  !  Thus  are  we  punished  for  oui 
fancied  woes,  by  real  calamities,  which  but 
too  well  teach  us.  what  true  sorrow  means. 
Corinne  bade  her  servant  ask  the  cause  of  all 
this  light  and  bustle.  A  domestic  replied, 
"  Lady  Edgarmond  gives  a  ball  to-night  ; 
which  my  master,  Lord  Nelvil,  has  opened 
with  the  heiress."  Corinne  shuddered ;  but 
a  painfuJ  curiosity  prompted  her  to  approach 
the  place  where  so  much  misery  threatened 
her ;  and  motioning  for  her  people  to  with- 
draw, she  entered  the  open  gates  alone :  the 
obscurity  permitted  her  to  walk  the  park  un- 
seen. It  was  ten  o'clock.  Oswald  had  been 
Lucy's  partner  in  those  English  country 
dances,  which  they  recommence  five  or  six 
times  in  the  evening. — the  same  gentleman 
always  dancing  with  the  same  lady,  and  the 
greatest  gravity  sometimes  reigning  over  this 
party  of  pleasure.  Lucy  danced  nobly,  but 
without  vivacity.  The  feeling  which  absorbed 
her  added  to  her  natural  seriousness  :  as  the 
whole  county  was  inquisitive  to  know  whether 
she  loved  Oswald,  the  unusually  observant 
looks  she  met  prevented  her  ever  raising  her 
eyes  to  his  ;  and  her  embarrassment  was 


CORINNE ;  OR,  ITALY. 


145 


such,  that  ehe  could  scarcely  hear  or  see  any- 
thing.    This  deeply  affected  him  at  first ;  but 
•    as  it  never  varied,  lie  soon  began  to  weary  a 
j    little ;  and  compared  this  long  range  of  men 
I    and  .women,  and  their  monotonous  music,  with 
I  the  animated  airs  and  graceful  dances  of  Italy. 
'    These  reflections  plunged  him  into  a  reverie  ; 
I'  and  Corinne  might  yet  have  tasted  some  mo- 
!    nients  of  happiness  could  she  have  guessed 
!j  his  thoughts;  but,  like  a  stranger  on  her  pa- 
I'  ternal  soil,  alone,  though  so  near  the  man  she 
ji  had  hoped  to  call  her  husband,  she  roved  at 
j :  hazard  through  the  dark  walks  of  the  grounds 
she  once  might  have  deemed  her  own.     The 
earth  seemed  failing  beneath  her  feet  ;  and 
the  fever  of  despair  alone  supplied  her  with 
strength  :  perhaps  she  might  meet  Oswald  in 
the  garden,  she  thought,  though  scarce  know- 
ing what  she  now  desired. 

The  mansion  was  belli  on  an  eminence  ;  a 

river  ran  at  its  base  ;  there  were  many  trees 

on  one  bank  ;  the  other  was  formed  of  rocks, 

covered  with  briars.     Corinne  drew  near  the 

water,  whose  murmur  blended  with  the  distant 

music  :  the  gay  lamps  were  reflected  on  its 

surface ;    while"  the  pale  light  of  the  moon 

j :  alone  irradiated  the  wilds  on  the  opposite  side. 

Jj  She  thought  of  Hamlet,  in  which  a  spectre 

j  i  wanders  round  the  festal  palace,     ^ru*  o-op, 

Ij  and  this  forsaken  woman  might  have  found 

Jj  eternal  oblivion.      "To-morrow,"  she  cried, 

';  "  when  he  strays  here  with  a  band  of  joyous 

ji  friends,  if  his  triumphant  steps  encountered 

j  the  remains  of  her  who  was  once  so  dear  to 

j  him,  would  he  not  suffer  something  like  what 

j  I  bear  now  1  would  not  his  grief  avenge  me  1 

\  yet,  no,  no !  it  is  not  vengeance  I  would  seek 

;  in  death,  only  repose."     Silently  she  contem- 

i  plated  this  stream,  flowing  in  rapid  regularity  : 

]  fair  nature!  better  ordered  than  the  human 

;  soul.     She  remembered  the   day   on   which 

I  Xelvil  had  saved  the  drowning  man.     "  How 

I  good  he  was  then !"  she  wept  forth,  "and  may 

I  be  still :  why  blame  him  for  my  woes  1  he 

I  may  not  guess  them — perhaps  if  he  could  see 

me "     She  determined,  in   the  midst  of 

this  fete,  to  demand  a  moment's  interview  with 
Lord  Nelvil ;  and  walked  towards  the  house, 
under  the  impulse  of  a  newly-adopted  decision 

||  which  succeeds  to  long  uncertainty  ;  but,  as 
!  she  approached  it,  such  a  tremor  seized  her, 

I 1  that  she  was  obliged  to  sit  down  on  a  stone 
1 1  bench  which  faced  the  windows.     The  throng 
1 1  of  rustics,  assembled  to  look  in  upon  the  dan- 
gers, prevented  her  being  seen.     Oswald,  at 
[j  this  moment,  came  to  a  balcony,  to  breathe 

j  the  fresh  evening  air.  Some  roses  that  grew 
I  there  reminded  him  of  Corinne's  favorite  per- 
fume, and  he  started.  This  long  entertainment 
|  tired  him,  accustomed  as  he  had  been  to  her 
i  good  taste  and  intelligence ;  and  he  felt  that 


10 


it  was  only  in  domestic  life  he  could  .find 
pleasure  with  such  a  companion  as  Lucy.  All 
that  in  the  least  degree  belonged  to  the  world 
of  poetry  and  the  fine  arts  bade  him  regret 
Corinne.  While  he  was  in  this  mood,  a  fellow-  | 
guest  joined  him,  and  his  adorer  once  more 
heard  him  speak.  What  inexplicable  sensa- 
tions are  awakenSd  by  the  voice  we  love  ! 
What  a  confusion  of  softness  and  of  dread  ! 
There  are  impressions  of  such  force,  that  our 
poor  feeble  nature  is  terrified  at  itself,  while 
we  experience  them. 

"  Don't  you  think  this  a  charming  ball  V 
asked  the  gentleman.  "Yes,"  returned  Os- 
wald, abstractedly,  "yes,  indeed!"  and  he 
sighed.  That  sigh,  that  melancholy  tone, 
thrilled  Corinne's  heart  with  joy.  She  thought 
herself  secure  of  regaining  his,  of  again  being 
understood  by  him,  and  rose,  precipitately,  to 
bid  a  servant  call  Lord  Nelvil :  had  she  obeyed 
her  inclination,  how  different  had  been  the 
destiny  of  both!  But  at  that  instant  Lucy 
came  to  the  window  ;  and  seeing  through  the 
darkness  of  l\y  garden  a  female  simply  drest 
in  white,  h',t  curiosity  was  kindled.  She 
leant  forward,  and  gazed  attentively,  believing 
that  sk^  recognized  the  features  of  her  sister, 
vu .,  she  thought,  had  been  for  seven  years 
dead.  The  terror  this  sight  caused  her  was 
so  great  that  she  fainted*  Every  one  hastened 
to  her  aid  :  Corinne  could  find  no  servant  to 
bear  her  message,  and  withdrew  into  deeper 
shade,  to  avoid  remark. 

Lucy  dared  not  disclose  what  had  alarmed 
her ;  but  as  her  mother  had,  from  infancy,  in- 
stilled into  her  mind  the  strongest  sense  of 
devotion,  she  was  persuaded  that  the  image 
of  her  sister  had  appeared,  gliding  before  her 
to  their  fathers  tomb,  as  if  to  reproach  her 
for  holding  a  fete  in  that  scene  ere  she  had 
fulfilled  her  sacred  duty  to  his  honored  dust : 
as  soon  as  she  was  secure  from  observation, 
she  left  the  ball.  Corinne,  astonished  at  see- 
ing her  alone  in  the  garden,  imagined  that 
Oswald  soon  would  follow  her,  and  that  per- 
haps he  had  besought  a  private  meeting  to 
obtain  her  leave  for  naming  his  suit  to  her 
mother.  This  thought  kept  her  motionless  ; 
but  she  saw  that  Lucy  bent  her  steps  towards 
a  small  grove,  which,  she  well  knew,  must 
lead  to  Lord  Edgarmond's  grave ;  and,  ac- 
cusing herself  of  not  having  earlier  borne 
thither  her  own  regrets,  followed  her  sister  at 
some  distance,  uns'een.  She  soon  perceived 
the  black  sarcophagus  raised  over  the  remains 
of  their  parent.  Filial  tenderness  overpow- 
ered her :  she  supported  herself  against  a 
tree.  Lucy  also  paused,  and  bent  her  head 
respectfully.  Corinne  was  readj  to  explain 
herself,  and,  in  their  father's  name,  demand 
her  rank  and  her  betrothed  ;  but  the  fair  girl 


146 


CORINNE ;  OR,  ITALY. 


made  a  few  harried  steps  towards  the  tomb, 
and  the  victim's  courage  failed. 

There  is  such  timidity,  even  in  the  most 
I  impetuous  female  heart,  that. a  trifie  will  re- 
strain, as  a  trifle  can  excite  it.  Lucy  knelt, 
removed  the  garland  which  had  bound  her 
hair,  and  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven  with  an 
angelic  appeal :  her  face  wa»  softly  illumined 
by  the  moonbeams,  and  Corinne's  heart  melted 
with  the  purest  generosity.  She  contemplated 
the  chaste  and  pious  expression  of  that  almost 
childish  visage,  and  remembered  how  she  had 
watched  over  it  in  infancy  :  her  own  youth 
was  waning,  while  Lucy  had  before  her  a  long 
futurity,  that  ought  not  to  be  troubled  by  any 
recollections  which  she  might  shame  at  con- 
fessing, either  before  the  world  or  to  her  own 
conscience.  "  If  i  accost  her,"  thought  Co- 
rinne,  "  that  soul,  so  peaceful  now,  will  be 
disturbed,  perhaps  for  ever.  I  have  already 
borne  so  much,  that  I  can  suffer  on  ;  but  the 
innocent  Lucy  would  pass,  in  a  moment,  from 

rrfect  calm  to  the  most  cruel  agitation.  Can 
,  who  have  lulled  her  to  sleep  on  my  bosom, 
hurl  her  into  the  ocean  of  grief?"  Love  still 
combated  this  disinterested  elevation  of  rnind, 
when  Lucy  said  aloud,  "  Pray  for  me,  O  ray 
father!"  Corinne  sank  on  her  knees,  and 
mutually  besought  a  pa.ternal  benediction  on 
them  both,  with  tears  more  stainless  than  those 
of  love.  Lucy  audibly  continued,  "Dear  sis- 
ter, intercede  for  me  in  heaven  !  Friend  of 
rny  childhood,  protect  me  now,!"  How  Co- 
rinne's bosom  yearned  towards  her,  as  Lucy, 
with  added  fervor,  resumed, — "Pardon  me, 
father,  a  brief  forgetfulness,  caused  by  the 
sentiment  yourself  commanded  !  I  am  not, 
sure,  to  blame  for  loving  higi  you  chose  to  be 
my  husband.  Achieve  your  wqrk !  Inspire 
him  to  select  me  as  the  partner  of  his  life  !  I 
shall  never  be  happy,  save  with  him  ;  but  my 
fluttering  heart  shall  not  betray  its  secret. 
Oh,  my  God  !  My  father,  console  your  child  ! 


render  her  worthy  the  esteem  of  Oswald  i " 
"  Yes,"    whispered    Corinne,    "  kind    father, 
grant  her  prayer,  and  give  your  other  child  a 
peaceful  grave  !"     Thus  solemnly  concluding 
the  greatest  effort  of  which  her  soul  was  ca- 
pable, she  took   from   her  breast  the  paper  !j 
which  contained  Oswald's  ring,  and  rapidly  :j 
withdrew.      She   fe.lt   that   in   sending  this,  "i 
without  letting  him  know  where  she  was,  she    i 
should  break  all  their  ties,  and  yield  him  to  j| 
her  sister.     In  the  presence  of  that  toinb,  she 
had  been  more  conscious  than  ever  of  the 
obstacles   which   separated   them  :    her  own 
father,  as  well  as  Oswald's,  seemed  to  con- 
demn their  love.     Lucy  appeared  deserving 
of  him  ;  and  Corinne,  at  least  for  the  moment, 
!  was  proud  to  sacrifice  herself,  that  he  might 
1  live  at  peace  with  his  country,  his  family,  and 
j  his  own  heart.     The  music  which  she  heard 
I  from  the  house  sustained  her  firmness  :  she 

I  saw  an  old  blind  man,  seated  at  the  foot  of  a 
tree  to  listen,  and  begged  he  would  present 
her  letter  to  one  of  the  servants ;  thus  she 
escaped  the  risk  of  Oswald's  discovering  who 
had  brought  it ;  for  no  one  could  have  seen 
her  give  the  letter  without  being  assured  that 
it  contained  the  fate  of  her  whole  life.  Her 
looks,  her  shaking  hand,  her  hollow  voice, 
bespoke  one  of  those  awful  moments,  when 
destiny  overrules  us,  and'  we  act  but  as  the 
slaves  of  that  fatality  which  so  long  pursued 
us.  Corinne  watched  the  old  man,  led  by  his 
faithful  dog,  give  her  letter  to  a  servant  of 
Nelvil's,  who,  by  chance,  was  carrying  others 
into  the  house.  All  things  conspired  to  ban- 
ish her  last  hope  :  she  made  a  few  steps  to- 
wards the  gate,  turning  her  head  to  mark  the 
servant's  entrance.  When  she  no  longer  saw 
him — when  she  was  on  the  high  road,  the 
lights  and  music  lost,  a  death-like  damp  rose 
to  her  brow,  a  chill  ran  through  her  frame  ; 
she  tottered  on,  but  nature  refused  the  task, 
and  she  fell  senseless  by  the  way. 


BOOK     XVIII. 

THE       SOJOURN       AT      FLORENCE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

COUNT  D'ERFEUIL  having  passed  some  time 
in  Switzerland,  wearied  of  nature  'mid  the 
Alps,  as  he  had  tired  of  the  arts  at  Rome,  and 


suddenly  resolved  to  visit  England.  He  had 
heard  that  he  would  find  much  depth  of  thought 
there,  and  woke  one  morning  to  the  conviction 
of  that  being  the  very  thing  he  wished  to  meet. 
This  third  search  after  pleasure  had  succeeded 


CORINNE ;  OR,  ITALY. 


147 


no  better  than  its  predecessors,  but  his  regard 

,  for  Nelvil  spurred  him  on ;  and  he  assured 

himself,  another  morning,  that  friendship  was 


spair  was  the  only  sensation  of  her  breast. 
D'Erfeuil  entered  her  room,  and,  finding  her 
even  paler  than  while  in  her  sivoon,  anxiously 


the  greatest  bliss  on  earth  ;  therefore  he  went  j  asked  her  the  news..    She   replied   gravely, 


to  Scotland.  Not  seeing  Oswald  at  his  home, 
but  learning  that  he  had  gone  to  Lady  Edgar- 
mond's,  the  Count  leaped  on  his  horse  to  fol- 
low ;  so  much  did  he  believe  that  he  longed 
to  meet  him.  As  he  rode  quickly  on,  he  saw 
a  female  extended  motionless  upon  the  road, 
and  instantly  dismounted  to  assist  her.  What 
was  his  honor,  at  recognizing  through  their 
mortal  paleness,  the  features  of  Corinne ! 
With  the  liveliest  sympathy  he  helped  his 
servant  to  arrange  some  branches  as  a  litter, 
intending  to  convey  her  to  Lady  Edgarmond's, 
when  Theresina,  who  till  now  had  remained 
in  her  mistress's  carriage,  alarmed  at  her  ab- 
sence, and,  certain  that  no  one  but  Lord  Nel- 
vil could  have  reduced  her  lady  to  this  state, 
begged  that  she  might  be  borne  to  the  neigh- 
boring town.  The  Count  followed  her ;  and 
for  eight  days,  during  which  she  suffered  all 
the  delirium  of  fever,  he  never  left  her.  Thus 
it  was  the  frivolous  man  who  proved  faithful, 
while  the  man  ef  sentiment  was  breaking  her 
heart.  This  contrast  struck  Corinne  when 
she  recovered  her  senses,  and  she  thanked 
d'Erfeuil  with  great  feeling :  he  replied  by 
striving  to  console  her,  more  capable  of  noble 
actions  than  of  serious  conversation.  Corinne 
found  him  useful,  but  could  not  make  him  her 
friend.  She  strove  to  recall  her  reason,  and 
think  over  what  had  passed  ;  but  it  was  long 
ere  she  could  remember  all  she  had  done,  and 
from  what  motive.  Then,  perhaps,  she  thought 
her  sacrifice  too  great ;  and  hoped,  at  least,  to 
bid  Lord  Nelvil  a  last  adieu,  ere  she  left  Eng- 
land ;  but  the  day  after  she  regained  her  facul- 
ties chance  threw  a  newspaper  in  her  way, 
which  contained  the  following  paragraph  : — 

"  Lady  Edgarmond  has  lately  learned  that 
her  step-daughter,  who  she  believed  had  died 
in  Italy,  is  still  enjoying  great  literary  cele- 
brity at  Rome  under  the  name  of  Corinne. 
Her  ladyship,  much  to  her  own  honor,  ac- 
knowledges the  fair  poet,  and  is  desirous  of 
sharing  with  her  the  fortune  left  by  Lord  Ed- 
garmond's brother,  who  died  -in  India.  The 
marriage  contract  was  yesterday  signed  be- 
tween his  lordship's  youngest  daughter  (the 
only  child  of  his  widow)  and  Lord  Nelvil,  who. 
on  Sunday  next,  leads  Miss  Lucy  Edgarmond 
to  the  altar." 

Unfortunately  Corinne  lost  not  her  con- 
sciousness after  reading  this  announcement ; 
a  sudden  change  took  place  within  her ;  all 
the  interests  of  life  were  lost,  she  felt  like  one 
condemned  to  death,  who  had  not  known,  till 
now,  when  her  sentence  would  be  executed ; 


shall  accompany  you,"  he  ardent- 
'•  I've  nothin?  to  detain  ine  here, 


"  I  am  no  longer  ill  ;  to-morrow  is  the  Sab- 
bath ;  I  will  go  to  Plymouth,  and  embark  for 
Italy."  "I 

ly  returned.  *•  I've  nothing  ti 
and  shall  be  charmed  at  travelling  with  you." 
"  How  truly  good  ydn  are  !"  she  said  :""  we 
ought  not  to  judge  from  appearances."  Then, 
after  checking  herself,  added,  "  I  accept  your 
guidance  to  the  seaport,  because  I  am  not  sure 
of  my  own  ;  but,  once  on  board,  the  ship  will 
bear  me  on,  no  matter  in  what  state  I  may 
be."  She  signed  for  him  to  leave  her,  and 
wept  long  before  her  God,  begging  him  to 
support  her  beneath  this  sorrow.  Nothing 
was  left  of  the  impetuous  Corinne.  The  ac- 
tive powers  of  her  life  were  all  exhausted ; 
and  this  annihilation,  for  which  she  could 
scarcely  account,  restored  her  composure. 
Grief  had  subdued  her.  Sooner  or  later  the 
most  rebellious  heads  must  bow  to  the  same 
yoke. 

"  It  is  to-day !"  sighed  Corinne,  as  she 
arose,  "  it  is  to-day !"  and  descended  to  her 
carriage.  On  Sunday,  Corinne  left  Scotland 
with  the  Count  d'Erfeuil.  He  questioned  her, 
but  she  could  not  reply.  They  passed  a 
church  :  she  asked  his  leave  to  enter  for  a 
moment;  then,  kneeling  before  the  altar, 
prayed  for  Oswald  and  for  Lucy :  but  when 
she  would  have  risen  she  staggered,  and  could 
not  take  one  step  without  the  support  of  The- 
resina and  the  Count,  who  had  followed  her. 
All  present  made  way  for  her,  with  every 
demonstration  of  pity.  "  I  look  very  mise- 
rable, then  1"  she  said  :  "  the  young  and  love- 
ly, at  this  hour,  are  leaving  such  a  scene  in 
triumph." 

The  Count  scarcely  understood  these  words. 
Kind  as  he  was.  and  much  as  he  loved  Co- 
rinne, he  soon  wearied  of  her  sadness,  and 
strove  to  draw  her  from  it,  as  if  we  had  only 
to  say  we  will  forget  all  the  woes  of  life,  and 
do  so.  Sometimes  he  criedr"  I  told  you  how 
it  would  be."  Strange  mode  of  comforting  ; 
but  such  is  the  satisfaction  which  vanity  tastes 
at  the  expense  of  misfortune.  'Corinne  fruit- 
lessly strove  to  conceal  her  sufferings ;  for 
we  are  ashamed  of  strong  affections  in  the 
presence  of  the  light-minded,  and  bashful  in 
all  feelings  that  must  be  explained  ere  com- 
prehended— those  secrets  of  the  heart  that 
can  only  be  consoled  by  those  who  can  divine 
them.  Corinne  was  displeased  with  herself, 
as  not  sufficiently  grateful  for  the  Count's  de- 
votion to  her  service  ;  but  in  his  looks,  his 
words,  his  accents,  there  was  so  much  which 


and  from  this  moment  the  resignation  of  de-  I  wandered  in  search  of  amusement,  that  she 


148 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


was  often  on  the  point  of  forgetting-  his  gene- 
rous actions,  as  he  did  himself.  It  is  doubt- 
less very  magnanimous  to  set  small  price  on 
our  own  good  deeds,  but  that  indifference,  so 
admirable  in  itself,  may  be  carried  to  an  ex- 
treme which  approaches  an  unfeeling  levity. 

Corinne,  during  her  delirium,  had  betrayed 
nearly  all  her  secrets — the  papers  had  since 
apprised  d'Erfeuil  of  the  rest.  He  often 
wished  to  talk  of  what  he  called  her  "  affairs" 
but  that  word  alone  sufficed  to  freeze  her  con- 
fidence ;  and  she  entreated  him  to  spare  her 
the  pain  of  breathing  Lord  Nelvil's  name.  In 
parting  with  the  Count,  Corinne  knew  not  how 
to  express  herself;  for  she  was  at  once  glad 
to  anticipate  being  alone,  and  grieved  \o  lose 
a  man  who  had  behaved  so  well  towards  her. 
She  strove  to  thank  him,  but  he  begged  her 
so  naturally  not  to  speak  of  it,  that  she  obeyed  ; 
charging  him  to  inform  Lady  Edgarmond  that 
she  refused  the  legacy  of  her  uncle  ;  and  to  do 
so,  as  if  she  had  sent  this  message  from  Italy  ; 
for  she  did  not  wish  her  step-mother  to  know 
she  had  been  in  England.  "  Nor  Nelvil  V 
asked  the  Count.  "  You  may  tell  him  soon, 
yes,  very  soon ;  my  friends  in  Rome  will  let 
you  know  when."  "  Take  care  of  your  health, 
at  least,"  he  added  :  "  don't  you  know  that  I 
am  uneasy  about  you  V  "  Really  !"  she  ex- 
claimed, smiling.  "  Not  without  cause,  I  be- 
lieve." He  offered  her  his  arm  to  the  vessel  : 
at  that  moment  she  turned  towards  England, 
the  country  she  must  never  more  behold, 
where  dwelt  the  sole  object  of  her  love  and 
grief,  and  her 'eyes  filled  with  the  first  tears 
she  had  shed  in  d'Erfeuil's  presence.  "  Love- 
ly Corinne!"  he  said,  "foroetthat  ingrate  ! 
think  of  the  friends  so  tenderly  attached  to 
you,  and  recollect  your  advantages  with  plea- 
sure." She  withdrew  her  hand  from  him^ 
and  stepped  back  some  paces  ;  then  blaming 
herself  for  this  reproof,  gently  returned  to  bid 
him  adieu  :  but  he,  having  perceived  nothing 
of  what  passed  in  her  mind,  got  into  the  boat 
with  her  ;  recommended  her  earnestly  to  the 
captain's  care  ;  busied  himself  most  endear- 
ingly on  all  the  details  that  could  render  her 
passage  agreeable  ;  and,  when  rowed  ashore, 
waved  his  handkerchief  to  the  ship  as  long 
as  he  could  be,  seen.  Corinne  returned  his 
salute.  Alas !  was  this  the  friend  on  whose 
attentions  she  ought  to  have  been  thrown  ? 

Light  feelings  last  long  :  they  are  not  bound 
so  tight  that  they  can  break.  They  are  ob- 
scured or  brought  to  light  by  circumstances, 
while  deep  affections  fly,  never  to  return  ;  and 
in  their  places  leave  naught  but  cureless 
wounds. 


CHAPTER  II.         * 

A  FAVORABLE  breeze  bore  Corinne  to  Leg- 
horn in  less  than  a  month.  She  suffered  from 
fever  the  whole  time  ;  and  her  debility  was 
such,  that  grief  of  mind  mingling  with  ihe 
pain  of  illness,  all  her  sensations  were  con- 
fused. She  hesitated,  on  landing,  whether 
she  should  proceed  to  Rome,  or  no  ;  but  though 
her  best  friends  awaited  her,  she  felt  an  insur- 
mountable repugnance  to  living  in  the  scenes 
where  she  had  known  Oswald.  She  thought 
of  that  doer  through  which  he  came  to  her 
twice  every  day  ;  and  the  prospect  of  being 
there  without  him  was  too  dreary.  She  de- 
cided on  going  to  Florence  ;  and,  as  she  be- 
lieved that  her  life  could  not  long  resist  her 
sorrows,  she  thus  intended  to  deiach  herself 
by  degrees  from  the  world,  by  living  alone, 
far  from"  those  who  loved  her,  far  from  the 
city  that  witnessed  her  success,  whose  inhabit- 
ants would  strive  to  re-animate  her  mind, 
and  expect  her  to  appear  what  she  had  been, 
while  her  discouraged  heart  found  every  effort 
odious. 

In  crossing  fertile  Tuscany,  a,nd  approach- 
ing flower-perfumed  Florence,  Corinne  felt 
but  an  added  sadness.  How  dreadful  the  de- 
spair which  such  skies  fail  to  calm !  One 
must  feel  either  love  or  religion,  in  ord~r  to 
appreciate  nature  ;  and  she  had  lost  the  first 
of  earthly  blessings,  without  having  yet  re- 
covered the  peace  which  piety  alone  can  af- 
ford the  unfortunate.  Tuacany,  a  well-culti- 
vated, smiling  land,  strikes  not  the  imagina- 
tion as  do  the  environs  of  Rome  and  Naples. 
The  primitive  institutions  of  its  early  inhabit- 
ants have  been  so  effaced,  that  there  scarcely 
remains  one  vestige  of  them  ;  but  another 
species  of  historic  beauty  exists  in  their 
stead, — cities  that  bear  the  impress  of  the 
middle  ages.  At  Sienna,  the  public  square 
wherein  the  people  assembled,  the  balcony 
from  which  their  magistrate  harangued  them, 
must  catch,  the  least  reflecting  eye,  as  proofs 
that  (here  once  flourished  a  democratic  gov- 
ernment. It  is  a  real  pleasure  to  hear  the 
Tuscans,  even  of  the  lowest  classes,  speak  : 
their  fanciful  phrases  give  one  an  idea  of  that 
Athenian  Greek,  which  sounded  like  a  per- 
petual melody.  It  is  a  strange  sensation  to 
believe  one's  self  amid  a  people  all  equally 
educated,  all  elegant ;  such  is  the  illusion 
which,  for  a  moment,  the  purity  of  their  lan- 
guage creates. 

The  sight  of  Florence  recalls  its  history, 
previous  to  the  Medicean  sway.  The  palaces 
of  its  best  families  are  built  like  fortresses  : 
without,  are  still  seen  the  iron  rings  to  which 
the  standards  of  each  party  were  attached. 
All  things  seem  to  have  been  morn  arranged 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


149 


for  the  support  of  individual  powers,  than  for 
their  union  in  a  common  cause.  The  city  ap- 
pears formed  for  civil  war.  There  are  tow- 
ers attached  to  the  Hall  of  Justice,  whence 
the  approach  of  the  enemy  could  be  discerned. 
Such  were  the  feuds  between  certain  houses, 
that  you  find  dwellings  inconveniently  con- 
structed, because  their  lords  would  not  let 
them  extend  to  the  ground  on  which  that  of 
some  foe  had  been  razed.  Here  the  Pazzi 
conspired  against  the  De  Medici ;  there  the 
Guelfs  assassinated  the  Ghibellines.  The 
marks  of  struggling  rivalry  are  everywhere 
visible,  though  but  in  senseless  stones.  No- 
thing is  now  left  for  any  pretenders  -but  an  in- 
glorious state,  not  worth  disputing.  The  life 
led  in  Florence  has  become  singularly  mo- 
notonous ;  its  natives  walk  every  afternoon 
on  the  banks  of  the  Arno,  and  every  evening 
ask  one  another  if  they  have  been  there. 
Corinne  took  her  residence  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  town  ;  and  let  Prince  Castel  Forte 
know  this,  in  the  only  letter  she  had  strength 
to  write  :  such  was  her  horror  of  all  habitual 
actions,  that  even  the  fatigue  of  giving  the 
slightest  order  redoubled  her  distress.  She 
sometimes  passed  her  day  in  complete  in- 
activity, retired  to  her  pillow,  rose  again, 
opened  a  hook,  without  the  power  to  compre- 
hend a  line  of  it.  Oft  did  she  remain  whole 
hours  at  her  window  ;  then  would  walk  rap- 
idly in  her  garden,  cull  its  flowers,  and  seek 
to  deaden  her  senses  in  their  perfume  ;  but 
the  consciousness  of  life  pursued  her,  like  an 
unrelenting  ghost :  she  strove  in  vain  to  calm 
the  devouring  faculty  of  thought,  which  no 
longer  presented  her  with  varied  images,  but 
one  lone  idea,  armed  with,  a  thousand  stings, 
that  pierced  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  III. 

AN  hour  passed  in  St.  Peter's  had  been 
wont  to  compose  her  :  and  Corinne  hoped  to 
find  the  same  effect  from  visiting  the  churches 
of  fair  Florence.'  She  walked  beneath  the 
fine  trees  on  the  river's  bank,  in  a  lovely  eve 
of  June.  Roses  embalmed  the  air,  and  every 
face  expressed  the  general  felicity  from  which 
she  felt  herself  excluded  ;  yet  she  unenvyingly 
blessed  her  God  for  his  kind  care  of  man. 
"  I  am  an  exception  fo  the  universal  order," 
she  said  ;  "  there  is  happiness  for  every  one 
but  me  :  this  power  of  suffering,  beneath 
which  I  die,  is  then  peculiar  to  myself.  My 


God  !  why  was  I  selected  for  such  a  doom  T 
May  I  not  say.  like  thy  Divine  Son,  '  Father, 
let  this  cup  be  taken  from  me  T'  " 

The  active  air  of  the  inhabitants  astonished 
her  :  since  she  had  lost  all  interest  in  life  she 
knew  not  why  ethers  seemed  occupied  ;  and 
slowly  pacing  the  large  stone  pavements  of 
Florence,  she  forgot  where  she  had  designed 
to  go.     At  last,  she  found  herself  before  the 
far-famed  gate  of  brass,  sculptured  by  Ghi- 
berti  for  the  font  of  St.  John's,  which  stands 
beside  the  cathedral.     For  some  time  she  ex- 
amined this  stupendous  work  ;  where,  wrought  Ji 
in  bronze,  the  divers  nations,  though  of  mi-   ' 
nute   proportions,  are   distinctly  marked   by 
their  varied  physiognomies;  all  of  which  ex- 
press some  thought  of  tbeir  artist.     "What  |j 
patience,"  cried  Corinne  ;  "  what  respect  for  h 
posterity  !  yet  how  few  scrutinize  these  doors  :  i 
through  which  they  daily  pass,  in  heedless- 
ness,  ignorance,  or  disdain  !     How  difficult  is 
it  to  escape  oblivion  !  how  vast  the  power  of 
death !" 

In  this  cathedral  was  Julian  de  Medici  as- 
sassinated. Not  far  thence,  in  the  church  of 
St.  Lorenzo,  is  shown  the  marble  chapel,  en- 
riched with  precious  stones,  where  rise  the 
tombs  of  that  high  family,  and  Michael  An- 
gelo's  statues  of  Julian  and  Lorenzo  :  the 
latter,  meditating  vengeance  on  the  murder  of 
his  brother,  deserves  the  honor  of  having  been 
called  '  la  pensee  de  Michel  Angela  .''  At  the 
feet  of  these  figures  are  Aurora  and  Night. 
The  awaking  of  the  one  is  admirable  ;  still 
more  so  is  the  other's  sleep.  A  poet  chose 
it  for  his  theme,  and  concluded  by  saying, 
"  Sound  as  is  her  slumber,  she  lives  :  if  you 
believe  not,  wake  her,  she  will  speak."  An- 
gelo,  who  cultivated  letters  (without  which 
imagination  of  all  kinds  must  soon  decay), 
replied  : — 

"  Grato  m'6  il  sono  e  piu  1'esser  d'y  ?aseo. 
Mentre  che  il  danno  e  la  vergogna  dura, 
Non  veder,  non  sentir  m'e  gran  ventara ; 
Pero  non  ini  destar,  deh  paila  basso !" 

"  It  is  well  for  me  to  sleep,  still  better  to  be 
stone  ;  while  shame  and  injustice  last : — not 
to  see,  not  to  hear,  is  a  great  blessing ;  there- 
fore disturb  me  not !  speak  low  !" 

This  great  man  was  the  only  comparatively 
modern  sculptor  who  neither  gave  the  human 
figure  the  beauty  of  the  antique  nor  the  affected 
air  of  our  own  day.  You  see  the  grave  energy 
of  the  middle  ages,  its  perseverance,  its  pas- 
sions, but  no  ideal  beauty.  He  was  the  genius 
of  his  own  school ;  and  imitated  no  one,  not 
even  the  ancients.  His  tomb  is  the  church 
of  Santa  Croce.  At  his  desire  it  faces  a  win- 
dow whence  may  be  seen  the  dome  built  by 
Filippo  Brunelleschi  ;  as  if  his  ashes  would 


150 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


stir,  even  beneath  the  marble,  at  the  sight  of 
a  cupola  copied  from  that  of  St.  Peter's. 
Santa  Croce  contains  some  of  the  most  illus- 
trious dead  in  Europe.  Galileo,  persecuted 
by  man,  for  having  discovered  the  secrets  of 
the  sky  : — Machiavel,  who  revealed  the  arts 
of  crime  rather  as  an  observer  than  an  actor  ; 
yet  whose  lessons  are  more  available  to  the 
oppressors  than  the  oppressed  : — Aretino,  who 
consecrated  his  days  to  mirth,  and  found  no- 
thing serious  in  life  except  its  end  : — Boccac- 
cio, whose  laughing  fancy  resisted  the  united 
scourges  of  civil  war  and  plague  : — a  picture 
in  honor  of  Dante,  showing  that  the  Floren- 
tines, who  permitted  him  to  perish  in  exile, 
were  not  the  less  vain  of  his  glory  (34)  ;  with 
many  other  worthy  names,  and  some  cele- 
brated in  their  own  day,  but  echoing  less 
forcibly  from  age  to  age,  so  that  their  sound 
is  now  almost  unheard.  (35.) 

This  church,  adorned  with  noble  recollec- 
tions, rekindled  the  enthusiasm  of  Corinne, 
which  the  living  had  repressed.  The  silent 
presence  of  the  great  revived,  for  a  moment, 
that  emulation  which  once  she  felt  for  fame. 
She  stepped  more  steadfastly,  and  the  high 
thoughts  of  other  days  arose  within  her  breast. 
Some  young  priests  came  slowly  down  the 
aisle,  chanting  in  subdued  tones  :  she  asked 
the  meaning  of  this  ceremony.  "  We  are 
praying  for  our  dead,"  said  one  of  them. 
"  Right,"  thought  Corinne  ;  "  your  dead  !  well 
may  you  boast  them  ;  they  are  the  only  noble 
relics  left  ye.  Ah  !  why  then,  Oswald,  have 
you  stifled  all  the  gifts  Heaven  granted  me, 
with  which  I  ought  to  excite  the  sympathy  of 
kindred  minds  1  Oh,  God  !"  she  added,  sink- 
ing on  her  knees,  "  it  is  not  in  vanity  I  dare 
entreat  thee  to  give  me  back  my  talents  ; 
doubtless  the  lowly  saints  who  lived  and  died 
for  thee  alone  are  greatest  in  thy  sight ;  but 
there  are  different  careers  for  mortals  :  genius, 
which  illustrates  our  noblest  virtues,  devotes 
itself  to  generous  humanity  and  truth,  may 
trust  to  be  received  into  some  outer  heaven." 
She  cast  her  eyes  to  earth,  and,  on  the  stone 
where  she  had  knelt,  read  this  inscription, — 

"  Alone  I  rose,  alone  I  sunk,  and  I'm  alone  e'en  here." 

"  Ah !"  cried  Corinne,  "  that  is  mine  an- 
swer. What  should  embolden  me  to  toil  1 
what  pride  can  I  ever  feel  ?  who  would  parti- 
cipate in  my  success,  or  interest  himself  in 
my  defeats  !  Oh,  I  should  need  his  look  for 
my  reward  V  Another  epitaph  fixed  her 
attention,  that  of  a  youth  who  says. — 

"  Pity  me  not  if  you  can  guess  how  many  pangs  the 
grave  hath  spared  me." 

How  did  these  words  wean  her  from  life ! 


amid  the  tumult  of  a  city,  this  church  opened 
to  teach  mankind  the  best  of  secrets,  if  they 
would  learn  :  but  no  ;  they  pass  it  by,  and  an 
incredible  fcrgetfulness  of  death  keeps  the 
world  alive. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  spring  of  feeling  which  had  consoled 
Corinne  for  a  few  moments,  led  her  next 
morning  to  the  gallery  :  she  hoped  to  recover 
her  taste,  and  draw  some  pleasure  from  her 
former  pursuits.  The  fine  arts  are  still  re- 
publican in  Florence.  The  pictures  and  sta- 
tues are  shown  at  all  hours,  with  the  greatest 
ease.  Well-informed  men,  paid  by  the  gov- 
ernment, like  public  functionaries,  explain  all 
these  chefx-cTceuvres.  This  lingering  respect 
for  talent  has  ever  pervaded  Italy,  particularly 
Florence,  where  the  Medici  extorted  pardon  ; 
for  their  power  over  human  actions,  by  the  , 
free  scope  they  left  for  human  minds.  The  I 
common  people  love  the  arts,  and  blend  this  ! 
taste  with  their  devotion,  which  is  more  regu- 
lar in  Tuscany  than  in  any  other  Italian  state  ; 
but  they  frequently  confound  mythologic  fig- 
ures with  Scripture  history.  One  of  the 
guides  used  to  show  a  Minerva  as  Judith,  and 
an  Apollo  as  David  ;  adding,  when  he  ex- 
plained a  bas-relief,  which  represented  the 
fall  of  Troy,  that  "  Cassandra  was  a  good 
Christian." 

Many  days  may  be  passed  in  the  gallery 
ere  half  its  beauties  are  known.  Corinne 
went  from  one  to  the  other,  mortified  at  her 
own  indifference  and  abstraction.  The  calm 
dignity  which  shines  through  the  deep  grief 
of  Niobe,  however,  recalled  her  attention. 
In  such  a  case,  the  countenance  of  a  living 
mother  would,  doubtless,  be  more  agitated  ; 
but  the  ideal  arts  preserve  beauty  even  in 
despair ;  and  what  affects  us  most  in  works 
of  genius,  is  not  grief's  self,  but  the  soul's 
power  o'er  grief.  Not  far  from  this  is  a  head 
of  the  dying  Alexander.  These  two  coun- 
tenances afford  rich  material  for  thought. 
The  conqueror  looks  astonished  and  indignant 
at  not  having  achieved  a  victory  even  over 
nature.  The  anguish  of  maternal  love  is 
depicted  on  all  the  traits  of  Niobe :  she 
presses  her  daughter  to  her  heart  with  the 
most  touching  ignorance  :  her  fine  face  bear- 
ing the  stamp  of  that  fatality  which  left  the 
ancients  no  resource,  even  in  religion.  Niobe 
lifts  her  eyes  to  heaven,  but  without  hope ; 
for  the  gods  themselves  are  her  enemies. 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


151 


On  her  return  home,  Corinne  strove  to  re- 
flect on  what  she  had  seen,  and  retrace  her 
impressions,  as  she  had  formerly  done ;  but 
her  mental  distraction  was  uncontrollable. 
How  far  was  she  now  from  the  power  of  im- 
provisation !  In  vain  she  sought  for  words, 
or  wrote  unmeaning  onea,  that  dismayed  her 
on  perusal,  as  would  the  ravings  of  delirium. 
Incapable  of  turning  her  thoughts  from  her 
own  situation,  she  then  strove  to  describe  it ; 
but  no  longer  could  she  command  those  uni- 
versal sentiments  that  find  echoes  in  all 
hearts.  Hers  were  now  but  long  unvaried 
wailings,  like  theory  of  the  night  bird  ;  her 
expressions  were  too  impetuous,  too  unveiled, 
— they  were  those  of  misery,  not  of  talent. 
To  write  well,  we  require  to  feel  truly,  bul 


superiority  of  intellect  and  of  soul.     This  su- 
periority has  a  most  favorable  influence  on  the 
character;  for  extent  of  knowledge  renders  >l 
us  very  indulgent,  and   great  depth  of  feeling  !j 
inspires  great  goodness  of  heart." 

"Ah  !  how  is  it,  that  two  beings  who  have 
confided  to  each  other  their  inmost  thoughts, 
who  have  talked  together  of  God,  of  the  im- 
mortality of  the  soul,  of  suffering  ; — how  is  it 
that  they  have  suddenly  become  strangers  to 
each  other  ?  What  an  inexplicable  mystery 
is  love  !  How  admirable,  or  how  worthless  ! 
Religious  as  the  faith  of  the  martyr,  or  colder 
than  the  most  simple  friendship  !  Does  this 
most  involuntary  of  all  our  emotions  come 
from  rieaveri  or  front  earth  1  Ought  we  to  submit 
to  it,  or  combat  ugainst  it  ?  Ah  !  what  storms 


not   heart-breakingly.     The  best  melancholy  J  break^  in  the  depths  of  the  heart !' 
letry  is  that  inspired  by  a  kind  of  rapture, 


4  sp 

which  still  tells  of  mental  strength  and  enjoy- 
ment. Real  grief  is  a  foe  to  intellectual  fer- 
tility :  it  produces  a  gloomy  agitation,  that 
incessantly  returns  to  the  same  point,  like  the 
knight  who,  pursued  by  an  evil  genius,  sought 
a  thousand  roads  for  escape,  yet  always  found 
himself  at  the  spot  from  whence  he  started. 

The  state  of  Corinne's  health  completed  the 
I  confusion  of  her  mind.     The  following  are  a 
I  few  of  the  reflections  she  wrote,  while  making 
a  fruitless  effort  to  become  capable  of  a  con- 
nected work. 


CHAPTER  V. 

FRAGMENTS    OF    THE     THOUGHTS    OF     CORINXE. 

''  MY  talent  exists  no  longer.  I  regret  its 
loss.  It  would  have  consoled  me  to  know- 
that  my  name  would  once  more  reach  his  ears 
invested  with  some  glory :  that  on  reading 
something  which  I  had  written,  a  sympathy 
with  me  might  yet  again  be  awakened  in  his 
bosom." 

"  It  was  folly  in  me  to  hope  that  after  re- 
turning to  his  own  country,  and  entering  into 
those  habits  of  life  which  are  peculiar  to  it, 
\\  he  would  still  retain  the  ideas  and  the  feelings 
i  which  could  alone  re-unite  us.  There  is  so 
much  to  be  said  against  such  a  being  as  I  am, 
so  much  to  which  no  other  reply  can  be  made 
but  that  I  have  talent — that  I  have  a  soul. 
But  what  reply  is  that  for  the  generality  of 
men  V 

"  They  are  wrong,  however,  in  dreading 


;  Talent  should  be  a  resource.  '  When  Do- 
menichino  was  imprisoned  in  a  convent,  he 
painted  glorious  pictures  on  its  walls,  and  left 
chefs  d'ceuvres  to  mark  where  he  had  been. 
But  he  suffered  from  external  causes.  The 
malady  was.not  in  the  soul.  When  it  is  there, 
no  effort  is  possible,  for  the  spring  of  all  ex- 
ertion is  gone." 

"  Sometimes  I  look  upon  myself  as  a  stran- 
ger might  do,  and  an  emotion  of  pity  comes 
over  me.  I  was  once  spiritual,  true,  affec- 
tionate, generous,  full  of  sensibility.  Why 
have  all  these  qualities  been  turned  into  in- 
struments of  suffering  ?  Is  the  world  indeed 
so  cruel  1  Must  traits  like  these  only  expose 
us  to  evil  instead  of  giving  us  strength  to  re- 
sist it."  •  '  • 

"  I  was  born  with  some  talent ;  but.  cele- 
brated as  I  may  be,  I  shall  die  without  having 
given  the  world  an  idea  of  what  I  might  have 
been.  Had  I  but  been  happy — had  not  the 
fever  of  the  heart  devoured  me,  1  should  have 
contemplated  from  a  high  point  of  view  the 
destiny  of  man.  I  should  have  discovered 
hidden  relations  which  he  bears  with  the  pre- 
sent and  the  future  world  ;  but  now — the  hand 
of  sorrow  presses  heavily  upon  me.  How 
can  I  think  freely  when  I  feel  its  stifling 
grasp  at  every  breath  I  draw  ]" 

"  Why  was  he  not  tempted  to  render  happy 
one  whom  he  alone  could  understand,  one  who 
spoke  to  him  only  from  the  bottom  of  her 
heart?  Ah!  separation  is  a  light  thing  for 
the  woman  who  loves  at  hazard  ;  but  for  her 
who  must  admire  the  being  that  she  loves, 
whose  judgment  is  penetrating  although  her 
imagination  may  be  fervid,  there  is  for  her 
but  one  object  in  the  universe." 

"  I  had  learnt  of  life  from  the  poets.  It  is 
not  as  they  have  painted  it.  There  is  some- 
thing arid  in  the  reality  which  we  attempt  io 
vain  to  change." 

"  When  I  call  to  mind  my  successes,  I  er- 


152 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


perience  a  feeling  of  irritation.  Why  was  I 
called  charming  if  I  was  not  to  be  loved  ? 
Why  was  1  inspired  with  confidence,  to  make 
it  only  the  more  terrible  to  be  deceived  1 
Will  he  find  in  another  more  sensibility — more 
tenderness  than  in  me  1  No  !  he  will  find 
less,  and  he  will  be  satisfied.  He  will  find 
himself  at  peace  with  society — society'  with 
its  heartless  joys  and  sorrows." 

"  In  the  presence  of  the  sun  and  of  the 
starry  spheres,  we  feel  no  other  want  than  to 
love  and  to  be  worthy  of  being  loved.  But 
society — society  !  How  hard  it  renders  the 
heart,  how  frivolous  the  mind  !  How  it  makes 
us  live  for  what  others  may  say  of  "us  !  If  men 
could  but  once  meet  one  another,  freed  from 
that  influence  which  each  is  subject  to  from 
the  rest,  what  a  pure  air  would  be  breathed 
over  the  s'oul !  What  new  ideas,  what  new 
sentiments  would  refresh  it !" 

"  Nature  herself  is  cruel.  Thosa  looks 
which  once  had  a  charm  are  fast  fading.  In 

in  shall  I  then  experience  the  most  tender 
emotions.  The  dimmed  eye  will  no  longer 
express  the  feelings  of  the  soul,  will  no  longer 
melt  with  my^  prayers." 

"  There  is'  an  anguish  within  me,  \vhich  I 
shall  never  express,  not  even  in  writing.  I 
have  not  the  strength  to  do  it.  Love  only 
can  sound  those  abysses." 

"  How  men  are  privileged,  that  they  can  go 
to  war,  brave  death,  give  themselves  to  the 
enthusiasm  of  honor  and  of  danger !  But 
there  is -no  relief,  from  without,  for  woman. 
Her  existence,  motionless  under  the  visitation 
of  sorrow,  is  a  long  and  slow  torture." 

"  Sometimes,  when  I  hear  music,  it  recalls 
the  talents  which  I  once  had — the  lyre — the 
dance — the  improvisation.  I  then  feel  a  de- 
sire to  escape  irom  suffering,  and  to  taste  of 
joy  once  more.  But  soon  an  inward  feeling 
makes  me  shrink  back.  I  should  seem  like  a 
shade  that  would  still  linger  upon  earth,  after 
the  rays  of  morning  and  the  approach  of  the 
living  warn  it  to  disappear." 

"  I.regret  that  I  am  no  longer  alive  to  the  at- 
tractions which  the  world  offers.  They  did  me 
good.  The  reflections  of  solitude  carried  me 
too  far,  and  my  talent  gained  by  the  variety  of 
my  impressions.  Now,  there  is  something  fix- 
ed in  my  looks,  as  in  my  thoughts.  Gaiety, 
grace,  imagination, — whither  have  ye  fled  ! 
Oh  !  that  I  could  once  more,  if  but  for  a  mo- 
ment, taste  the  blessing  of  hope !  But  it  is 
too  late.  The  desert  is  inexorable.  The 
drop  of  water,  and  the  river,  are  dried  up ; 
and  the  happiness  of  day  is  as  difficult  as  that 
of  life  itself." 

"  He  has  wronged  me  deeply.  Yet  when 
I  compare  him  with  other  men,  how  artificial, 
narrow,  worthless  they  seem,  while  he  is  like 


an  angel,  but  an  angel  with  a  flaming  sword, 
which  has  consumed  me.  He  whom  we  love 
is  the  avenger  of  the  faults  we  have  commit- 
ted on  earth.  The  divinity  delegates  to  him 
his  retributory  power."  • 

'•  It  is  not  first  love  that  is  ineffaceable  ;  we 
love  then  because  our  affections  crave  an  ob- 
ject. But  when,  after  we  have  known  life, 
and  our  judgment  is  matured  ;  we  meet  at 
last  the  mind  and  the  heart  which  we  have  till 
tken  sought  for  in  vain, — imagination  is  lost 
in  reality,  and  reason  itself  aggravates  our 
sufferings." 

"  Wtiat  folly,  will  most  persons  say,  it  is  to 
die  for  love  ;  as  if  there  were  not  a  thousand 
other  modes  of  happiness  !     Enthusiasm  of  ' 
every  kind  is  ridiculous  to  those  who  do  not 
feel  it.     Poetry,  disinterestedness,  love,  reli-  j 
gion,  all  have  the  same  origin,  and  there  are  ' 
men  to  whom  all  those  sentiments  are  but  so 
many  different  forms  of  madness.     To  such, 
everything  is  folly  which  reaches  beyond  the 
care  for  their  individual  existence."  " 

"  My  chief  misery  is  in  the  reflection  that 
he   alone  understood  my  character,  and  per- 
haps he   will  one  day  learn  that  I  alone  .can 
appreciate  him.     I  am  at  once  the  easiest  and  ; 
the  most  difficult  person  in  the  world.     The  ' 
society  of  all  good  beings  is  agreeable  to  me  ; 
for  a  time,  but  for  an  intimacy, — a  fixed  affec-  i 
tion,  there  could  be  no  other  than  Oswald  for 
me  in  the  world.     Imagination,  talent,  sensi- 
bility, what  a  union  !     Where  else  can  it  be 
found  1     And  he,  the  cruel,  possessed  of  all  ; 
these  qualities,  or  at  least  all  their  charms."  j 

"  What  can  I  have  to  say  to  others  ?     To  ! 
whom  shall  I  speak  ?     What  object,  what  in-  | 
terest  is  left  me  1     The  most  cruel  griefs  and  i 
the   most   delicious  joys    have    been    mine.  ! 
What  can  I  now  fear, — what  can  I  now  hope  1 
The  pale  future  is  to  me  naught  but  the  spec- 
tre of  the  past." 

"  Ah  !  why  are  happy  situations  so  transi- 
tory T  Is  suffering  the  order  of  nature ! 
Pain  is  to  the  body  a  transitory  convulsion, 
but  it  is  an  habitual  state  of  the  soul. 

Jlhi !  null'  ultra  che  pianto  al  mondo  dura. 

"  Everything  in  life  is  transitory  but  grief." 

PKTEAF*  *. 

"  Another  life  !  another  life  !  There  u  my 
hope.  But  such  is  the  power  which  the  pre- 
sent exerts  over  us,  that  when  we  look  for- 
ward to  a  future  world  we  count  on  th*j  «mo- 
tians  which  have  occupied  us  here,  iii  the 
mythologies  of  the  north,  the  shades  of  the 
huntsman  are  represented  as  pursuing  the 
shades  of  the  stags  athwart  the  clouds  But 
why  talk  we  of  shades'?  Where  is  rulity  ? 
There  is  nothing  real  but  suffering.  T  lat 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


15-3 


alone  holds  faithfully  to  the  promise  which  it 
gives." 

"  I  dream  continually  of  immortality, — not 
of  that  which  man  can  give, — not  of  the 
praise  of  those  coming  generations,  who,  ac- 
cording to  the  expression  of  Dante,  are  to 
call  the  present  time  ancient : — that  immor- 
tality interests  me  no  longer.  But  I  do  not 
believe  in  the  annihilation  of  the  soul.  No, 
my  God,  I  do  not  believe  that.  It  is  for  thee, 
that  heart  which  a  mortal  has  rejected, — if 
thou  wilt  deign  to  receive  such  a  sacrifice." 

"  I  feel  that  I  have  not  long  to  live,  and  the 
thought  spreads  a  calm  over  my  soul.  'Tis 
sweet  to  sink  thus  slowly  away, — to  feel  the 
sense  of  pain  gradually  exhausting  itself." 

"  I  do  not  know  why  it  is  that  under  the 
infliction  of  suffering  we  are  more  susceptible 
of  superstition  than  of  piety.  I  seem  to  see 
an  omen  in  everything  that  happens.  Ah ! 
how  sweet  a  thing  is  devotion  to  the  happy  ! 
What  gratitude  to  the  Supreme  Being  must 
the  wife  of  Oswald  experience  !" 

"  Doubtless  it  is  the  tendency  of  grief  to  re- 
fine the  character.  We  connect  in  imagina- 
tion our  sufferings  with  our  faults.  To 
our  own  eyes,  at  least,  a  visible  bond  seems 
to  unite  them.  But  this  salutary  effect  has  a 
limit.  It  will  not  be  till  I  have  summoned 
away  every  resource  that  I  shall  be  able  to 
secure 

'Trnnquillo  varco 
A  piu  tranquilla  vita.' 

'  A  tranquil  passage  to  a  life  more  tranquil.' " 

"When  I  shall  be  wholly  prostrated  by 
sickness,  a  calm  will  spread  over  my  heart. 
There  is  much  innocence  in  the  thought  of  a 
being  who  is  about  to  die,  and  I  welcome  the 
feelings  which  that  situation  inspires." 

"  Inexplicable  enigma  of  life, — passion  ! 
Neither  suffering  nor  genius  can  penetrate 
its  mystery  : — will  it  be  revealed  unto  prayer  1 
Perhaps  the  most  simple  thought  would  ex- 
plain all.  Perhaps  we  have  a  thousand  times 
approached  it  in  our  reveries."  But  the  last 
step  is  impossible,  and  our  vain  efforts  do  but 
fatigue  the  soul.  It  is  time  that  mine  should 
be  at  rest. 

1  Fermosl  al  fin  il  cor  che  balzo  tanto.'* 

l/ippolito  Pindemonte." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

PRINCE  CASTEL  FORTE  quitted  Rome,  to 
fix  himself   near   Corinne.      She   felt  most 


'  That  bean  which  beat  eo  quick,  at  last  is  still. 


grateful  for  this  proof  of  friendship,  and  yet 
ashamed  that  she  could  not  requite  it,  even  by 
such  conversation  as  of  yore  :  now  she  was 
silent  and  abstracted  ;  her  tailing  health  robbed 
her  of  all  the  strength  required,  even  for  a 
momentary  triumph  over  her  absorbing  griefs. 
That  interest,  which  the  heart's  courtesy  in- 
spires, she  could  still  at  times  evince;  but  her 
desire  to  please  was  lost  for  ever.  Unhappy 
love  freezes  all  our  affections  :  our  own  souls 
grow  inexplicable  to  us.  More  than  we  gain- 
ed while  we  were  happy  we  lose  by  the  re- 
verse. That  added  life  which  made  us  enjoy 
nature  lent  an  enchantment  to  our  intercourse 
with  society  ;  but  the  heart's  vast  hope  once 
lost,  existence  is  impoverished,  and  all  spon- 
taneous impulses  are  paralysed.  Therefore  a 
thousand  duties  command  women,  and  men 
still  more,  to  respect  and  fear  the,  passion  they 
awaken,  since  it  may  devastate  the  mind  as 
well  as  the  heart. 

Prince  Castel  Forte  endeavored  to  lead 
Corinne  to  the  topics  which  formerly  inter- 
ested her.  But  he  might  speak  for  some 
minutes  to  Corinne  without  a  reply,  because 
she  neither  understood  nor  even  heard  him. 
When  she  did,  her  answers  had  none  of  that 
glowing  animation  once  so  remarkable  ;  they 
merely  dragged  on  a  dialogue,  for  a  few  se- 
conds, and  then  she  relapsed  into  silence. 
Sometimes,  after  an  effort  like  this,  she 
would  smile  in  pity  of  herself,  and  beg  par- 
don of  her  friend  for  the  wanderings  which 
she  could  not  control. 

He  ventured  at  one  time  to  talk  of  Oswald, 
and  thought  that  she  took  a  bitter  pleasure  in 
the  subject ;  but  it  left  her  so  shaken  that  she 
was  obliged  to  interdict  it.  Castel  Forte  was 
a  susceptible  being  ;  but  not  even  the  most 
magnanimous  of  men  knows  how  to  console 
the  woman  he  has  loved  under  the  pangs  thus 
inflicted  by  another.  Some  little  self-love  on 
his  side,  unites  with  timidity  on  hers,  in  pre- 
venting perfect  confidence.  Besides,  what 
would  it  avail  1  It  can  only  be  of  service  to 
such  wounds  as  would  cure  themselves  with- 
out it. 

The  amiable  prince  used  the  utmost  man- 
agement in  the  choice  of  his  topics.  She 
would  thank  him,  by  pressing  his  hand,  and 
once,  after  a  walk  on  the  banks  of  the  Arno, 
she  began  some  sally  of  gaiety  with  her  ac- 
customed grace  :  he  gazed  and  listened  in 
glad  surprise  ;  but  she  abruptly  broke  off,  and 
rushed  from  the  room  in  tears.  On  returning, 
she  said  gently,  "  Pardon  me,  my  generous 
friend  ;  I  would  fain  make  myself  agreeable  ; 
it  will  not  be  :  bear  with  me  as  I  am."  WThat 
most  distressed  him,  was  the  shock  her  con- 
stitution had  received  :  no  immediate  danger 
threatened  her,  yet  it  was  impossible  that  she 


154 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


could  live  long,  unless  she  regained  some 
vigor.  If  she  endeavored  to  speak  on  aught 
that  concerned  the  soul,  her  wan  tremor  was 
painful  to  behold  :  and  he  strove  to  divert  her 
from  this  strain. 

At  this  time  the  prince  received  a  letter 
from  Lord  Nelvil,  replete  with  professions, 
which  would  have  deeply  affected  Corinne  : 
he  deliberated  for  hours  together  on  the  pro- 
priety of  showing  it  to  her  ;  but  anticipating 
the  violence  of  its  effects  on  one  so  feeble,  he 
forbore.  Even  while  he  was  thus  deliberat- 
ing, another  letter  reached  him,  announcing 
his  Lordship's  departure  for  America.  Cas- 
tel  Forte  then  decided  on  saying  nothing  to 
Corinne.  Perhaps  he  erred :  one  of-  her 
greatest  griefs  was  Nelvil's  silence ;  she 


scarce  dared  own  it  to  herself;  but  though 
for  ever  separated  from  him,  one  recollection, 
one  regret,  would  have  been  very  precious  to 
her  :  as  it  was,  he  gave  her,  slie  thought, 
no  opportunity  of  hearing  his  name,  left  her 
no  opportunity  for  breathing  it.  The  sorrow, 
of  which  no  one  speaks  to  us,  which  gains  no 
changes  from  time,  cuts  deeper  than  reiterated 
blows  :  the  good  prince  followed  the  usual 
maxim,  which  bids  us  do  our  utmost  towards 
teaching  a  mourner  to  forget :  but  there  is  no 
oblivion  for  the  imaginative  :  it  were  better  to 
keep  alive  their  memories,  weary  them  of 
their  tears,  exhaust  their  sighs,  and  force 
them  back  upon  themselves,  that  they  may  re- 
concentrate  their  own  powers. 


BOOK    XIX . 
OSWALD'S    RETURN    TO    ITALY. 


CHAPTER   I. 

LET  us  now  return  to  the  events  which  oc- 
curred in  Scotland,  after  the  sad  fete  at  which 
Corinne  made  her  self-sacrifice.  Lord  Nel- 
vil's  servant  carried  his  letters  to  the  ball- 
room. Oswald  retired  to  read  them.  He 
opened  several  which  his  agent  had  sent  from 
London,  little  guessing  that  among  them  was 
one  which  would  decide  his  fate  ;  but  when  he 
beheld  the  writing  of  Corinne,  and  saw  the  ring, 
the  words, — "  You  are  free  !" — he  felt  at  once 
the  most  cruel  grief  and  violent  irritation.  He 
had  not  heard  from  her  for  two  months,  and  now 
her  silence  was  broken  by  this  laconic  decision. 
He  remembered  what  Lady  Edgarmond  had 
said  of  her  instability,  and  entered  into 
all  the' stepdame's  feelings  against  her;  for 
he  still  loved  enough  to  be  unjust,  forgetting 
how  long  he  had  renounced  the  idea  of  mar- 
rying her,  how  much  Lucy  had  pleased  him ; 
he  looked  on  himself  as  the  blameless  vic- 
tim of  an  inconstant  woman  :  perplexity  and 
despair  beset  him ;  but  over  them  both  tower- 
ed a  feeling  of  pride  prompting  him  to  rise 
superior  to  his  wronger.  This  boasted  pride 
rarely  exists  unless  self-love  predominates 
over  affection.  Had  Nelvil  now  valued  Co- 
rinne as  in  their  days  at  Rome  and  Naples 
not  all  his  "wrongs  supposed"  could  have 
torn  her  from  his  heart. 


Lady  Edgarmond  detected  his  distress.  The 
fatal  malady  beneath  which  she  labored  in- 
creased her  ardent  interest  in  her  daughter. 
She  knew  the  poor  child's  heart,  and  feared 
that  she  had  compromised  her  happiness  for 
ever  ;  therefore  she  seldom  lost  sight  of  Nel- 
vil, but  read  his  secrets  with  that- discernment 
which  is  deemed  peculiar  to  our  sex,  but  which 
belongs   solely   to   the    unremitted   attention 
which  a  real  interest  teaches  us.     On  the  pre- 
text of  transferring  Corinne's  inheritance,  she 
besought  Lord  Nelvil's  company  next  morn- 
ing, and  shortly  discovered  his  dissatisfaction 
with  Corinne  ;  she  nattered  his  resentment  by 
j  the  prospect  of  a  noble  vengeance,  offering  to 
I  recognize  her  husband's  daughter.     The  sud- 
|  den  change  amazed  him  ;  yet  though  its  con- 
!  dition  was  unexplained,  he  comprehended  it ; 
'  and,  in  one  of  those  moments  at  wrhich  we  act 
i  more  quickly  than  we  can  think,  demanded 
I  Lucyls    hand.     Her  mother,  scarce   able  to 
i  restrain  her  joy,  so  as  not  to  say  yes  too  hasti- 
|  ly,  consented  :  and  he  left  her  presence,  bound 
i  by  an  engagement,  which,  when  he  entered  it, 
j  he  had  not  dreamt  of  undertaking. 

While  Lady  Edgarmond  prepared  Lucy  to 

receive  him,  he  paced  the  garden  in  violent 

agitation,  telling  himself  that  she  had  merely 

j  pleased  him  because  he  knew  little  of  her, 

i  and  that  it  was  madness  to  found  the  Itappi- 

|  ness  of  his  life  on  the  charm  of  a  mystery  that 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


155 


must  inevitably  be  dissipated.  He  then  re- 
traced his  letters  to  Corinne,  too  plainly  show- 
ing his  internal  struggles.  "  She's  right !" 
he  sighed :  "  I  have  not  the  courage  fit  to 
make  her  blest :  but  yet  it  should  have  cost 
her  more  to  lose  me — that  cold  brief  line — 
yet  who  knows  but  her  tears  might  have  fallen 
on  it !"  His  own  burst  forth  in  spite  of  him. 
These  reveries  hurried  him  on  unconsciously 
so  far,  that  he  was  long  sought  in  vain  by  the 
servant  sent  to  tell  him,  that  Lady  Edgarmond 
desired  his  return.  Astonished  at  his  own 
lack  of  eagerness,,  he  obeyed. 

On  re-entering  the  drawing-room,  he  found 
Lucy  kneeling,  her  head  reclined  on  the  bo- 
som of  her  parent,  with  a  most  touching  grace. 
As  she  heard  his  footsteps,  she  raised  her 
flowing  eyes,  and,  extending  her  hand  to  him, 
said  simply,  "  My  Lord,  I  know  you  will  not 
separate  me  from  my  mother."  This  inno- 
cent manner  of  announcing  hei  consent  much 
interested  Oswald,  who,  sinking  on  his  knees, 
besought  Lady  Edgarmond's  permission  to 
imprint  on  that  blushing  forehead  the  first 
kiss  which  had  ever  awakened  more  than 
childlike  emotions  in  the  breast  whose  beauty 
less  enchanted  him  than  did  its  celestial  mo- 
desty. 

The  days  which  preceded  that  chosen  for 
their  marriage  were  spent  in  the  needful  ar- 
rangements. Lucy  spoke  more  than  usual ; 
but  all  she  said  was  so  nobly  natural,  that  Os- 
wald loved  and  approved  her  every  word,  and 
yet  he  felt  a  void  beside  her.  Their  conver- 
sation consisted  but  of  questions  and  answers ; 
she  neither-started  nor  prolonged  any  subject : 
all  went  well,  but  without  that  exhaustless 
animation  with  which  it  is  so  difficult  for  those 
who  have  once  enjoyed  it  to  dispense.  Lord 
Nelvil  thought  of  Corinne ;  but,  as  he  no  longer 
heard  her  named,  hoped  that  her  image  would 
at  last  become  merely  an  object  of  his  vague 
regret. 

When  Lucy  learnt  from  her  mother  that 
her  sister  still  lived  in  Italy,  she  much  wished 
to  talk  of  ^er  with  Oswald,  but  Lady  Edgar- 
mond forbade ;  and  the  girl,  habitually  sub- 
missive, asked  not  the  reason  of  this  prohibi- 
tion. On  the  morning  of  his  marriage  the 
hapless  Corinne  haunted  Nelvil  fearfully  ;  but 
he  addressed  his  father's  spirit,  confessing  that 
it  was  to  win  his  heavenly  benediction  his  son 
accomplished  thus  his  will  on  earth.  Re-as- 
sured by  these  meditations,  he  sought  his 
bride,  reproaching  himself  for  having  allowed 
his  thoughts  to  wander  from  her.  A  descend- 
ing angel  could  not  have  chosen  a  face  more 
fit  than  hers  to  give  mortality  a  dream  of  hea- 
venly virtue.  At  the  altar,  Lady  Edgarmond 
was  even  more  agitated  than  her  daughter ;  for 
all  important  steps  alarm  us  the  mere  the 


greater  our  experience.  Lucy  was  all  hope  ; 
childhood  still  mingled  with  her  youth,  and 
blended  joy  with  love.  In  leaving  the  church 
she  leaned  timidly  on  Oswald's  arm,  as  if  to 
assure  herself  of  his  protection  :  he  looked  on 
her  tenderly,  as  if  he  felt  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart,  a  foe  who  menaced  her  repose,  and  from 
whom  he  had  promised  to  defend  her.  Lady 
Edgarmond,  on  their  return,  said  to  her  son- 
in-law, — "  My  mind  is  easy  :  I  have  confided 
to  you  the  happiness  of  my :  daughter ;  and 
have  so  short  a  time  to  live,  that  it  is  a  comfort 
for  me  to  think  my  place  will  be  so  well  sup- 
plied." Lord  Nelvil  was  much  affected  by 
these  words,  and  anxiously  mused  on  the  du- 
ties they  imposed.  A  few  days  elapsed : 
Lucy  had  begun  to  meet  her  husband's  eye 
with  confidence,  and  make  her  mind  known 
to  him,  when  unlucky  incidents  disturbed  the 
union  commenced  under  these  favorable  aus- 
pices. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MR.  DICKSON  paid  his  respects  to  the  young 
couple,  apologising  for  not  having  been  pre- 
sent at  their  marriage.  He  had  been  ill,  he 
said,  from  the  effects  of  a  fall,  though  kindly 
assisted  by  the  most  charming  woman  in  the 
world.  Oswald,  at  this  moment,  was  playing 
at  battledore  with  Lucy,  who  was  very  grace- 
ful at  this  exercise.  Her  bridegroom  gazed 
on  her,  and  listened  not  to  Mr.  Dickson,  who 
at  last  called  to  him  from  the  other  end  of  the  | 
room.  "  My  Lord,  the  fair  unknown,  who 
came  to  my  aid,  had  certainly  heard  much  | 
about  you,  for  she  asked  me  many  questions  | 
concerning  your  fate."  "Who  do  you  mean1?"  | 
said  Nelvil,  continuing  his  game.  "  A  love-  i 
ly  creature,  my  Lord,  although  she  looked 
changed  by  suffering,  and  could  not  speak  of 
you  without  emotion."  These  words  attract- 
ed Oswald's  attention  ;  but  Lucy,  perfectly  un- 
concerned, joined  her  mother,  who  had  just 
sent  for  her.  Lord  Nelvil  no.w  asked  Mr. 
Dickson  what  lady  it  was  who  had  thus  spoken 
of  him.  "  I  know  not,"  he  replied  :  "  her  ac- 
cent proved  her^English,  though  I  have  rarely 
found  a  person  of  address  so  obliging  and 
easy  among  our  countrywomen.  She  took  as 
much  care  of  a  poor  old  man  like  me  as  if  she 
had  been  my  own  child:  while  [  was  beside 
her,  I  did  not  feel  my  bruises  ;  but,  my  dear 
Oswald,  have  you  been  faithless  here  as  well 
as  in  Italy  ?  My  beauteous  benefactress  trem- 


156 


CORLMNE;  OR,  ITALY. 


I  bled  and  turned  pale  at  naming  you."     "  Just 
heaven!"  exclaimed  Nelvil,  "you  said  anEng- 
;   lishwoman  V     "  Oh  yes  :  you  know  foreign- 
I   ers  never  pronounce  our  language  without  a 
certain  intonation."     "  And  her  face  1" — "  The 
most  expressive  I  ever  saw,  though  fearfully 
pale  and  thin."     This  description  suited  not 
the  brilliant  Corinne  ;  yet  might  she  not  have 
suffered  much,  if  in  England,  and  unable  to 
find  the  being  she  sought  ?     This  dread  fell 
suddenly  on  Oswald,  who  continued  his  ques- 
tions with  extreme  uneasiness.     Mr.  Dickson 
replied  that  the  lady  conversed  with  an  ele- 
gance which,  he  had  never  before  met,  that 
I  the  gentlest  kindness  spoke  from  her  sad  and 
:  languid  eyes.     "  Did  you  notice  their  color  ?" 
j  asked  Oswald.     "  Magnificently  dark  !"    The 
j  inquirer  trembled.     "  Was  her  conversation 
|  animated. V     "No,"  continued  Mr.  Dickson, 
!  "  from  time  to  time  she  interrogated,  or  an- 

•  swe,red  me,  in  a  few  words,  but  what  she  did 
;  say   was  delightful."     He   would  have   pro- 

•  ceeded,  but  Lady  Nelvil,  with  her   mother, 
.  rejoined  them;    and  Oswald   hastily   retired, 
j  hoping  soon  again  to  find  Mr.  Dickson  alone. 

Struck  by  his  sadness,  Lady  Edgarmond 
sent  Lucy  away,  that  she  might  inquire  its 
|  cause.     Her  guest  simply  repeated  what  had 
i;  passed  :  terrified  at  anticipating  the  despair  of 
j|*Oswald,  if  he  were  assured  Corinne  had  fol- 
j!  lowed  him  to  Scotland;   foreseeing,  too,  that 
!]  he  would   resume  this  topic,  she,  instructed 
j    Mr.  Dickson  as  to  what  she  wished  said  to 
;  i  her  son-iri-law.     In  effect,  on  a  second  inter- 
view, the  old  gentleman  only  increased  the 
anxiety  it  was  too  late  to  remove.     Oswald 
now  asked  his  servant  if  all  the  letters  sent 
him  within  the  last  three  weeks  had  come  by 
post.     The  man  "  believed  they  had,"  and  was 
leaving  the  room;  but,  turning  back,  added, 
"  I  remember  that,  on  the  ball  night,  a  blind 
man  gave  me  one  for  your  Lordship.     I  sup- 
posed it  a  petition  for  charity."     "  I  received 
n-me  such  :  could  you  find  this  man  V     "  Yes. 
my   Lord,  directly  :  he  lives  in  the  village." 
"  Go,  bring  him  to  me !"  said  Nelvil ;  and  un- 
able to  wjiit  patiently,  walked  out  to  meet  him 
at  the  end  ot  the  avenue. 

"  So,  my  friend,"  he  said,  "  you  brought  a 
letter  here  for  me,  on  the  evening  of  the  ball ; 
who  gave  it  to  you  V  "  My  Lord,  ye  see  I'm 
blind  ;  how  could  I  know  ?"  "  Do  you  think 
it  was  a  female  1"  "  Yes,  my  Lord  !  for  suo 
had  a  sweet  voice,  though  indeed  it  was  almost 
stifled  with  weeping."  "And  what  did  she 
•ay  to  you  V-  "  Oh,  sir,  she  said,  '  Good 
old  man,  give  this  to  Oswald's  servant,'  and 
there  stopped,  but  soon  she  added,  '  1  mean 
Lord  Nelvil's.'  "  "  Ah,  Corinne !"  exclaimed 
Oswald,  and  grew  so  faint  that  he  was  forced 
to  support  himself  on  the  old  man's  arm,  who 


continued,  "  I  was  sitting  under  a  tree  whnn 
she  gave  me  the  message,  and  wished  to  do  it 
quick,  but  could  scarce  raise  myself,  being  so 
old  now  :  well,  after  giving  me  more  silver 
than  I'd  had  for  long  before,  she  lent  me  her 
hand,  poor  thing!  it  trembled  just  as  your 
Lordship's  does  this  minute."  '"Enough!" 
sighed  Nelvil.  "  Here,  my  good  friend,  as 
she  gave  you  money,  let  me  do  so  too  :  go, 
and  pray  for  us  both  !''  He  withdrew. 

From  this  moment  a  terrible  agitation  prey- 
ed on  his  mind  :  he  made  a  thousand  useless 
inquiries,  unable  to  conceive  the  possibility  of  : 
Corinne's  having   been  in    Scotland   without  ! 
seeking  him.     He  formed  various  conjectures,  ', 
as  to  her  motives ;  and,  in  spite  of  all  his  en- 
deavors to  conceal  it,  this  affliction  was  evi- 
dent to  Lady  Edgarmond,  nay,  even  to  Lucy. 
All  was  constraint  and  silence.     At  this  time 
Oswald  wrote   first   to   Castel    Forte.     Had 
Corinne  read  that  letter,  it  would  much  have 
softened  her  resentment. 

Count  d'Erfeuil  joined  the  Nelvils  ere  the 
Prince's  reply  arrived.  He  said  no  more  of  j 
Corinne  than  was  necessary,  yet  felt  vexed  at 
their  not  perceiving  that  he  had  an  important 
secret  in  his  power,  though  too  discreet  to  be- 
tray  it.  His  insinuations  at  first  took  no  ef-  i 
feet  upon  Oswald  :  but,  when  he  detected  that 
they  referred  to  Corinne,  he  was  all  curiosity. 
The  Count  having  brought  him  to  this,  de- 
fended his  own  trust  pretty  bravely ;  at  last, 
however,  his  friend  drew  forth  the  whole 
truth.  It  was  a  pleasure  for  d'Erfeuil  to  re- 
late how  grateful  Corinne  had  felt,  and  it» 
what  a  wretched  state  he  had  found  her :  he 
ran  on,  without  observing  how  he  agonized 
Lord  Nelvil :  his  only  thought  was  that  of  be- 
ing hero  of  his  own  story  ;  when  he  ceased,  he 
was  much  afflicted  at  the  mischief  he  had  done. 
Oswald  had  commanded  himself  till  then,  but 
suddenly  became  distracted  with  regret ;  ac- 
cused himself  as  the  most  barbarous  and  un-  ji 
grateful  of  men  ;  dwelt  on  Corinne's  devoted 
tenderness ;  her  generosity  at  the  very  mo- 
ment when  she  believed  him  most  culpable. 
He  contrasted  this  with  the  heartless  fickle- 
ness by  which  he  had  requited  her ;  incessant- 
ly repeating  that  no  one  ever  loved  him  as  she 
did ;  and  that  he  should  in  some  way  be  ulti- 
mately punished  for  his  cruelty.  He  would 
have  set  forth  to  see  her,  if  only  for  a  day,  an 
hour ;  but  Rome  and  Florence  were  already 
occupied  by  the  French;  his  regiment  was 
about  to  embark ;  he  could  not  forfeit  his  own 
honor,  nor  break  the  heart  of  his  wife  ;  indeed, 
no  faults  he  might  now  commit  could  repair 
the  past;  they  would  but  add  to  the  misery  he 
had  occasioned.  The  only  hope  that  calmed 
him  was  derived  from  the  dangers  he  was 
about  to  brave. 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


157 


In  th:^  mood  he  wrote  again  to  Castel  Forte, 
whose  replies  represented  Corinne  as  sad,  but 
resigned :  his  pride  in  her  softened  rather 
than  exaggerated  the  truth.  Oswald  believed 
that  he  ought  not  to  torture  her  by  his  regrets, 
after  having  so  wronged  her  by  his  love, — and 
left  Britain  with  a  sense  of  remorse  which 
nearly  rendered  life  insupportable. 


CHAPTER  III 

LUCY  was  afflicted  by  his  departure;  yet 
his  recent  gloom  had  so  increased  her  natural 
tiir.i'lify,  that  she  had  never  found  courage  to 
confid'3  in  him  her  hopes  of  becoming  a  mo- 

I  ther;  but  left  it  to  Lady  Edgarmond  to  send 
j   these  tidings,  after   him.     Nelvil,  unable   to 
I:  guess  what  passed  in   his  wife's  heart,  had 
|   thoug'it  her  farewell  cold ;  compared  her  silent 

I 1  subnrr  ision  with  the  eloquence  of  Corinne,  and 
hesity.led  not  to  believe  that  Lucy  loved  him  but 
feeblv  ;  yet,  during  his  absence,  scarcely  could 
even  the  birth  of  their  daughter  divert  her 
mind   from   his   perils.      Another   grief  was 
add*- 1  to  all  this. 

P'Erfeuil  spent  a  year  in  Scotland,  strong- 
ly persuaded  that  he  had  not  revealed  the  se- 
cret of  Corinne's  sojourn  there  ;  but  he  said  so 
rm'ch  that  implied  it,  and  found  such  difficulty, 
wren  conversation  flagged,  in   avoiding   the 
t!v-me  most  interesting  to  Lady  Nelvil,  that  she 
at  Jast  learnt  the  whole  truth.    Innocent  as  she 
v  :.s,  it  required  even  less  art  than  she  possessed 
if  draw  d'Erfeuil  out  upon  a  favorite  subject. 
:  I  idy  Edgarmond  was  too  ill  to  be  present  at 
•  tt  ese  conversations  ;  but  when  she  questioned 
j  her  daughter  on  the  melancholy  she  detected, 
I  Lucy  told  all.     Her  mother  spoke  very  se- 
verely on  Corinne's  pursuit  of  Oswald.     Lucy 
was  alternately  jealous  of  her  sister,  and  in- 
dignant against  her  husband,  for  deserting  one 
to  whom  he  had  been  so  dear.     She  could  not 
help  trembling  for  her  own  peace,  with  a  man 
who  had  thus  wrecked  that  of  another.     She 
had  ever  cherished  a  grateful  recollection  of  her 
early  instructress,  which   now  blended  with 
sympathy :  far  from  feeling  flattered  with  Os- 
wald's sacrifice,  she  was  tormented  by  the  idea 
j  I  that  he.  had  chosen  her  merely  because  her  posi- 
;'  tiim  in  the  world  was  more  advantageous  than 
I  that  of  Corinne.  She  remembered  his  hesitation 
!  before  marriage,  his  sadness  so  soon  after,  and 
everything  confirmed  the  cruel  belief  that  her 
husband  loved  her  not.  Lady  Edgarmond  might 
have  been  of  great  serf-ice  to  her  daughter,  had  1 


she  striven  to  calm  her;  but  she  too  intolerantly 
anathematised  all  sentiments  that  deviated  from 
the  line  of  duty;  nor  dreamt  of  tenderly  lead-  j. 
ing  a  wanderer  back,  thinking  that  the  cnly  way  j  j 
to  awake  conscience  was  by  showing  resent- 
ment. She  was  mortified  that  so  lovely  a 
woman  should  be  so  ill  appreciated ;  and  ag- 
gravated Lucy's  fears,  in  order  to  excite  her 
pride.  Lady  Nelvil,  more  gentle  and  en- 
lightened than  her  mother,  could  not  rigorous- 
ly follow  such  advice  ;  yet  her  letters  to  Os- 
wald were  always  far  colder  than  her  heart. 
Meanwhile  he  was  distinguishing  himself  no- 
bly, exposing  his  life,  not  merely  in  honorable 
enthusiasm,  but  in  a  positive  love  of  peril. 
He  appeared  most  gay  when  most  actively  em- 
ployed, and  would  blush  with  pleasure  when 
the  tumult  of  battle  commenced.  At  such  mo- 
ments a  weight  seemed  lifted .  from  his  heart, 
and  he  could  breathe  with  ease.  The  popu- 
larity- he  enjoyed  among  his  fellow  soldiers 
animated  the  existence  it  could  not  render  hap- 
py, and  almost  blinded  him  as  to  the  past  and 
the  future.  He  grew  accustomed  to  the  luke- 
warm correspondence  of  his  wife.  When  he  re- 
membered her,  it  was  as  a  being  worthy  of  his 
protection,  and  whose  mind  he  ought  to  spare 
from  all  deeply  seiious  thoughts.  But  in 
those  splendid  tropic  nights,  that  gave  so 
grand  an  idea  of  nature  and  its  Author,  the 
image  of  Corinne  was  often  with  him  ;  when 
both  war  and  climate  menaced  his  life  each 
hour,  he  thought  himself  less  guilty  since  death 
was  so  near.  At  the  approach  of  eternity,  we 
forgive  our  enemies,  and  in  the  same  situation 
we  have  more  indulgence  for  ourselves.  He 
thought  but  of  the  tears  which  his  death  would 
cause  Corinne,  not  upon  those  his  errors  had 
extorted.  It  was  natural  he  should  think  most 
of  her;  they  had  so  often  talked  of  immor- 
tality, and  sounded  every  depth  of  solemn 
feeling :  he  fancied  that  he  still  conversed  with 
her,  while  occupied  by  the  great  thoughts  the 
spectacles  of  war  invariably  suggest.  It  was 
to  Corinne  he  spoke  in  solitude,  although  he 
knew  that  she  must  sadly  blame  him.  Spite 
of  absence,  distance,  time,  and  every  change, 
they  seemed  to  understand  each  other  still. 

At  last  his  regiment  was  ordered  home. 
The  monotony  of  shipboard  pleased  him  less 
than  had  the  stir  of  arms.  External  excite- 
ment supplied  some  of  the  imaginative  joys 
he  owed  to  his  intercourse  with  Corinne. 
He  had  not  yet  attempted  to  live  calmly  with- 
out her.  The  proofs  of  devotion  his  soldiers 
gave  him  somewhat  beguiled  the  voyage ;  but 
even  that  interest  failed  on  their  landing  at 
England. 


158 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

NELVIL  had  now  to  renew  his  acquaintance 
wieh  his  own  family,  after  four  years'  separa- 
tion. He  ateifced  at  Lady  Edgarmond's  castle 
in  NorthumbeWand.  Lucy  presented  her  child 
with  as  much  diffidence  as  if  she  had  deemed 
herself  guilty.  Her  imagination  had  been  so 
occupied  by  her  sister,  during  the  period  of 
her  maternal  expectations,  that  little  Juliet 
displayed  the  dark  eyes  and  hair  of  Corinne. 
Her  father,  in  wild  agitation,  pressed  her  to 
his  heart ;  and  from  that  instant  Lucy  could 
not  take  unqualified  delight  in  his  affection  for 
his  daughter.  The  young  wife  was  now  nearly 
twenty.  Her  beauty  had  attained  a  dignity 
which  inspired  Nelvil  with  respect.  Lady 
Edgartnond  was  too  infirm  to  leave  her  bed  ; 
yet,  although  her  illness  tried  her  temper,  she 
received  her  son-in-law  with  satisfaction  ;  hav- 
ing feared  that  she  should  die  in  his  absence, 
and  leave  her  daughter  alone  Upon  the  world. 
Oswald,  so  long  accustomed  to  a  military  ca- 
reer, found  it  very  difficult  to  remain  nearly 
all  day  in'  the  chamber  of  an  invalid,  who  re- 
ceived no  one  but  himself  and  wife.  Lucy 
dearly  loved  her  lord  ;  but,  believing  her  affec- 
tion unprized,  concealed  what  she  knew  of  his 
passion  for  Corinne,  and  became  more  silent 
than  ever.  Mild  as  she  was,  her  mother  had 
so  influenced  her,  that  when  Oswald  hinted  at 
the  added  charm  she  would  gain  by  a  little 
animation,  she  received  this  but  as  a  proof  that 
he  still  preferred  her  sister,  and  was  too  hurt 
to  profit  by  it :  he  could  not  speak  of  the  fine 
arts  without  occasioning  her  a  sadness  that 
repressed  his  enthusiasm.  Had  she  been  bet- 
ter taught,  she  would  have  treasured  up  his 
slightest  word,  that  she  might  study  how  to 
please  him.  Lady  Edgarmond  evinced  a 
rowing  distaste. for  all  deviations  from  her 
.abituaT  routine  :  her  nerves  shrunk  from  eve- 
ry sound.  She  would  have  reduced  life  to  a 
state  of  stagnation,  as  if  the  less  to  regret  its 
loss  :  but,  as  few  like  to  confess  their  personal 
motives  for  certain  opinions,  she  supported 
hers  on  the  general  principles  of  exaggerated 
morality ;  and  disenchanted  life,  by  making 
sins  of  its  least  amusements, — by  opposing 
some  duty  to  every  employment  which  would 
have  made  to-day  differ  from  yesterday  or  to- 
morrow. Lucy,  duteous  as  she  was,  had  so 
much  flexibility  of  mind  that  she  would  have 
joined  her  husband  in  gently  reasoning  with 
this  exacting  austerity,  had  she  not  been  per- 
suaded that  it  was  adopted  merely  to  discoun- 
tenance Oswald's  Italian  predilections.  "  You 
must  struggle  most  perseveringly,"  would  her 
mother  say,  "  against  any  return  of  that  dan- 
gerous infatuation."  Lord  Nelvil  had  a  great 
I  reverence  for  duty  ;  but  he  understood  it  in  a 


wider  sense  than  that  of  Lady  Edgarmond  : 
tracing  it  to  its  source,  he  found  tnat  it  might 
perfectly  accord  with  natural  inclination,  in- 
stead of  requiring  perpetual  combats  and  sac- 
rifices. Virtue,  he  thought,  far  from  rendering 
life  a  torture,  contributes  to  the  duration  of  its 
happiness,  and  may  be  considered  as  a  sort  of 
prescience  granted  "  to  man  alone  beneath  the 
heaven." 

Sometimes/  in  explaining  those  ideas,  he 
yielded  to  the  pleasure  of  using  the  expres- 
sions of  Coririne.  Lady  Edgarmond  discov- 
ered much  ill-hurnor  when  he  allowed  himself 
to  think  and  sp/eak  in  this  manner.  New  doc- 
trines ever  displease  the  old.  They  like  to 
fancy  that  the  world  has  been  losing  wisdom, 
instead  of  gaining  it,  since  they  .were  young. 
Lucy's  heart  instinctively  detected  the  echoes 
of  her  sister's  voice  in  the  sentiments  Oswald 
breathed  with  so  much  ardor.  She  would 
cast  down  her  eyes  to  hide  this  consciousness  : 
her  husband,  utterly  unaware  of  it,  attributed 
her  apparent  insensibility  to  want  of  compre-r 
hension  ;  and  not  knowing  where  to  seek  con- 
geniality, sunk  into  despondence.  He  wrote 
to  Castel  Forte  for  news  of  Corinne  ;  but  the 
war  prevented  the  letter's  arrival.  His  health 
suffered  from  the  cold  of  England ;  and  the 
physicians  assured  him  that  his  chest  would 
be  again  attacked,  if  he  did  not  pass  the  win- 
ter in  Italy.  He  told  this  to  his  wife  and 
mother,  adding,  that  the  war  between  France , 
and  England  must  at  present  prevent  his  tour. 
"  And  when  peace  is  concluded,"  said  Lady 
Edgarmond,  "  I  should  hope,  my  Lord,  that 
you  would  not  think  of  returning  to  Italy." 
"  If  his  health  depends  on  it,"  ventured  Lucy, 
"  he  could  not  do  better."  Oswald  expressed 
much  gratitude  for  her  kindness.  Alas!  his 
thanks  but  assured  her  of  his  love  for  another. 
War  ceased  ;  and  every  time  Oswald  com- 
plained, Lucy's  heart  was  divided  between  her 
dread  of  his  departure  for  Italy,  and  her  fond- 
ness, which  over-rated  his  indisposition.  He 
attributed  her  doubt  of  the  necessity  for  this 
voyage  to  selfishness  :  thus  each  wounded  the 
other's  feelings,  because  neither  dared  confess 
their  own.  All  these  interests  were  soon  ab- 
sorbed in  the  state  of  Lady  Edgarmond,  who 
was  now  speechless,  and  could  only  express 
herself  by  tears,  or  by  the  manner  in  which 
she  pressed  their  hands.  Lucy  was  in  de- 
spair. Oswald  set  up  every  night  with  her. 
It  was  no\v  December ;  and  these  cares  were 
highly  injurious  to  him,  though  they  seemed 
much  to  gratify  the  sufferer,  whose  faults  dis- 
appeared just  as  her  agonies  would  have  ex- 
cused them.  The  approach  of  death  stills  all 
the  tumults  of  soul  from  which  most  of  our 
errors  proceed.  On  her  last  night  she  joined 
the  hands  of  Oswald  ancl  Lucy,  pressed  them 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


159 


to  her  heart,  and  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven  ; 
m  longer  deploring  the  voice  which  could  have 
added  nothing  to  the  impressiveness  of  that 
action, — that  look.  In  a  few  seconds  she  ex- 
pired. 

Lord  Nelvil,  who  had  supported  himself 
with  great  effort,  fjr  her  sake,  now  became 
dangerously  ill,  and  poor  Lucy's  distress  was 
thus  redoubled.  In  his  delirium,  he  often 
named  Corinne,  and  Italy,  sighing,  "  Oh,  for 
the  southern  sun !  it  is  so  cold  in  the  north 
here  :  I  shall  never  be  warm  again."  When 
he  recovered  his  senses  he  was  surprised  at 
finding  that  Lucy  had  prepared  everything 
for  his  voyage  :  she  merely  repeated  the  ad- 
vice of  his  physicians,  adding,  "  If  you  will 
permit  it,  I  shall  accompany  you ;  and  our 
child  ought  not  to  be  parted  from  her  parents." 
"  No,  no,  we  will  not  part,"  he  answered  ; 
"  but  if  this  journey  would  pain  you,  I  re- 
nounce it."  "That  will  not -pain  me,"  she 
j  replied.  Oswald  took  her  hand,  and  gazed 
j  inquiringly  on  her  :  she  would  have  explained 
|  herself;  but  the  memory  of  her  mother's  ad- 
i;  vice  never  to  betray  a  sign  of  jealousy,  re- 
proved her,  and  she  added, — "  You  must  be 
sure,  my  Lord,  that  my  first  object  is  the  re- 
establishment  of  your  health."  "  You  have  a 
sister  in  Italy,"  continued  he.  "  I  know  it : 
have  you  any  tidings  of  her  ?"  "  Never  since 
I  left  for  America."  "  Well,  my  Lord,  we 
shall  learn  all  in  Italy."  "  Are  you  then  in- 
terested in  her  still  V'  "  Yes  ;  I  have  not 
forgotten  the  tenderness  she  showed  my  child- 
hood." "  We  ought  not  to  forget,"  sighed 
Nelvil ;  and  both  again  were  silent.  Oswald 
had  too  much  delicacy  to  desire  a  renewal  of 
his  former  ties  with  Corinne  ;  but  he  thought 
that  it  would  be  sweet  to  die  in  Italy,  after 
receiving  her  pardon  and  adieu.  He  little 
deemed  that  his  delirium  had  betrayed  him, 
and  did  injustice  to  the  mind  of  his  wife  ;  be- 
cause it  had  rather  wshown  him  the  opinion  of 
others  than  what  she  felt  herself,  he  believed 
she  loved  him  as  much  as  she  could  love,  but 
he  knew  nothing  of  her  sensibility  ;  at  present 
her  pride  disguised  it ;  but,  had  she  been  per- 
fectly happy,  she  would  have  thought  it  im- 
proper to  avow  a  passionate  affection  even  for 
her  own  husband ;  capable  as  she  was  of  it, 
education  convinced  her  that  it  would  be  im- 
modest to  profess  this  feeling;  but  nothing 
else  could  teach  her  to  take  pleasure  in  speak- 
ing of  anything  else. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

OSWALD,  disliking  all  recollections  of  France, 
crossed  it  very  hastily.  Lucy  evinced  neither  ' 
wish  nor  will  of  any  kind,  but  left  it  for  him 
to  decide  everything.  They  reached  the 
base  of  the  mountains  that  separate  Dauphine 
from  Savoy,  and  ascended  the  Pas  des  Echel- 
les  on  foot :  this  road  is  dug  in  the  ?ocks  ;  its 
entrance  resembles  a  deep  cavern  ;  it  is  dark 
throughout,  even  in  the  brightest  days  of  sum- 
mer,. As  yet  they  found  no  snow  ;  but  autumn, 
the  season  of  decay,  was  herself  fast  fading. 
The  road  .was  covered  with  dead  leaves,  borne 
to  these  regions  on  the  gale,  from  the  distant 
trees.  Thus  they  saw  the  wreck  of  nature, 
without  beholding  any  promise  of  her  revival. 
The  sight  of  the  mountains  charmed  Lord 
Nelvil.  While  we  live  among  plains,  the 
earth  seems  only  made  to  bear  and  nourish 
man  ;  but  in  picturesque  countries  we  see  the 
impress  of  their  Creator's  power  and  genius. 
Yet  maa  is  everywhere  at  home  with  nature  : 
the  roads  he  frames  ascend  the  steep,  or  fathom 
the  abyss  ;  nothing  is  inaccessible  to  him,  save 
the  great  mystery  of  his  own  being. 

In  Morienne  the  winter  was  more  rigorously 
felt  at  every  step  :   one  might  fancy  one's  self 
wending  northward,  in  approaching  Mont  Ce- 
nis.    "Lucy,  who  had  never  travelled  before, 
was  alarmed  at  finding  the  ice  rendered  the 
horses'  pace  unsteady  :  she  hid  her  fears,  but 
reproached  herself  for   having   brought   her 
little  one  with  her ;  often  doubting  whether 
the  resolve  to  do  so  had  been  truly  moral,  or 
whether  the  hope  of  growing  dearer  to  Os-  || 
waldj  by  constantly  associating  her  image  with 
that  of  her  beloved  child,  had  not  deadened 
her  to  the  risks  Juliet  would  thus  incur.     Lucy 
was  apt  to  perplex  her  mind  with  secret  scru- 
ples of  conscience  ;  the  more  virtuous  we  are, 
the  more  this  kind  of  fastidiousness  increases  : 
she  had  no  resource,  save  in  her  long  and 
silent  prayers,  which  somewhat  tranquillized 
her  spirit.     The  landscape  now  took  a  more 
terrific  character ;    the  snow  fell  heavily  on 
ground  already  covered  with  it.     They  seem- 
ed entering  the  Hell  of  Ice  described  by  Dante. 
From  the  foot  of  the  precipices  to  the  mount- 
ain tops  all  varieties  were  concealed.     The 
pines,  now  clothed  in  white,  were  mirrored  in   ( 
the  water  like   spectral  trees.     Oswald  and 
Lucy  gazed  in  silence :  speech  would  have 
seemed  presumptuous  :  nature  was  frozen  into   | 
dumbness,  and  they  remained  mute  like  her.  ., 
Suddenly  they  perceived,  on  an  immense  ex-   . 
tent  of  snow,  a  long  file  of  darkly  clad  figures  i 
carrying   a  bier  towards  a  church.      These   ' 
priests,  the  only  living  beings  who  broke  this 
desert  solitude,  preserved  their  wonted  pace. 
The  thought  of  death  lent  it  a  gravity  which  j 


:ieo 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


iivit  even  the  bleakness  of  the  air  tempted 
them  to  forget.  Here  was  the  mourning  of 
nature  and  of  man  for  vegetable  and  for  hn- 
man  life.  No  color  was  left,-—  that  black  and 
that  white,  thus  united,  struck  the  soul  with 
awe.  "  What  a  sad  omen  !"  sighed  Lady 
Nelvil.  "  Lucy,"  interrupted  Oswald,  "  trust 
me,  it  is  not  for  you."  "  Alas  !"  he  thought, 
u  it  was  not  beneath  such  auspices  that  I  travel- 
led with  Corinne.  Where  is  she  now  ?  may 
not  these  gloomy  objects  be  but  warnings  of 
what  I  am  to  suffer]"  Lucy's  nerves  v\-ere 
shaken  by  the  terrors  of  her  journey.  This 
kind  of  fear  is  almost  unknown  to  an  intrepid 
man  ;  and  she  mistook  for  carelessness  of  her, 
Oswald's  ignorance  of  such  alarm's  possible 
existence.  The  common  people,  who  have 
no  better  exercise  for  fancy,  love  to  exagge- 
rate all  hazards,  and  delight  in  the  effect  they 
thus  produce  on  their  superiors.  The  inn- 
keepers, every  winter,  tell  their  guests  wild 
tales  of  "  le  Mont"  as  if  it  were  an  immova- 
ble monster,  guarding  the  vales  that  lead  to 
the  land  of  promise.  They  watch  the  weather 
for  formidable  symptoms,  and  beg  all  foreign- 
ers to  avoid  crossing  Mont  Cenis  during  la 
tourmente.  This  is  a  wind  announced  by  a 
white  cloud,  spread  like  a  sheet  in  the  air, 
and  by  degrees  covering  the  whole  horizon. 

Lucy  had  gained  all  possible  information, 
unknown  to  Nelvil,  who  was  too  much  occu- 
pied by  the  sensation  of  returning  to  Italy  to 
think  on  these  reports.  The  possible  end  and 
aim  of  his  pilgrimage  agitated  his  wife  still 
more  than  did  the 


journey  itself,  and  she  judg 
favorably.     In  the  mornim 


ed  everything  unfavorably 
of  their  ascent,  several  peasants  beset  her 
with  forebodings;  those  hired  to  carry  her  up 
the  mountain,  however,  assured  her  there  was 
nothing  to  apprehend  :  she  looked  at  Nelvil, 
and  saw  that  he  laughed  at  these  predictions  : 
therefore,  piqued  by  his  security,  she  professed 
herself  ready  to  depart.  He  knew  not  how 
much  this  resolution  cost  her,  but  mounted  a 
horse  and  followed  the  litter  which  bore  his 
wife  and  child.  The  way  was  easy,  till  they 
were  about  the  centre  of  the  flat  which  pre- 
cedes the  descent,  when  a  violent  hurricane 
arose.  Drifts  of  snow  blinded  Lucy's  bear- 
ers, and  often  hid  Oswald  from  her  view.  The 
religious  men  who  devote  their  lives  to  succor 
travellers  OH  the  Alps  began  to  ring  their  alarm 
bell  ;  yet,  tl»ngh  this  sound  proclaimed  the 
neighborhood  of  benevolent  pity,  its  rapid  and 
heavy  repetition  seemed  more  expressive  of 
dismay  than  assistance. 

Lucy  hoped  that  Oswald  would  propose 
passing  the  night  at  this  monastery  ;  but,  as 
she  said  nothing,  he  thought  it  best  to  hasten 
on,  while  daylight  lasted.  Lucy's  bearers  in- 


them  to  descend.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "since 
my  lord  does  not  oppose  it."  She  erred  in 
thus  suppressing  her  feelings  :  the  presence  of 
her  child  would  have  excused  them  ;  but,  while 
we  love  one  by  whom  we  cannot  deem  our- 
selves beloved,  each  instant  brings  its  own 
sense  of  humiliation.  Oswald  remained  on 
horseback,  though  that  was  the  least  safe 
method  of  descent,  but  he  •  believed  himself 
thus  secure  against  losing  sight  of  his  wife 
and  child.  From  the  summit  Lucy  looked 
down  on  the  abrupt  road  which  she  would 
have  taken  for  a  precipice,  had  not  steeps  still 
more  perpendicular  been  close  at  hand.  She 
pressed  her  child  to  her  heart  with  strong 
emotion.  Oswald  observed  this,  and  quitting 
his  saddle,  joined  the  men  who  carried  her 
litter.  The  grateful  zeal  with  which  he  did 
this  filled  her  eyes  with  tears  ;  but,  at  that  in- 
stant, the  whirlwind  rose  so  furiously  that  her 
bearers  fell  on  their  knees,  exclaiming,  "  Oh 
God,  protect  us  !"  Lucy  regained  her  cour- 
age ;  and,  raising  herself,  held  Juliet  towards 
Lord  Nelvil.  "  Take  your  child,  my  love  !" 
she  said.  Oswald  received  it,  answering, 
"And  you  too — come.  I  can  carry  ye  both  !" 
"  No,"  she  said,  "  only  save  her  .'"  "  Save  !" 
he  repeated  :  "  is  there  any  danger  1;  Unhap- 
py wretches — why  did  you  not  tell  us?" 
"  They  did,"  interrupted  Lucy.  "  And  you 
concealed  it  from  me  ?  How  have  I  merited 
this  cruel  reserve  V  He  wrapped  his  cloak 
round  Juliet,  and  cast  down  his  eyes  in  deep 
disquietude  ;  but  Heaven  most  mercifully  ap- 
peased the  storm,  and  lent  a  ray  which  showed 
them  the  fertile  plains  of  Piedmont.  In  an- 
other hour  they  arrived  unharmed  at  Nova- 
laise,  the  first  Italian  town  after  crossing  Mont 
Cenis. 

On  entering  the  inn  Lucy  embraced  her 
child,  and  returned  fervent  thanks  to  God. 
Oswald  leaned  pensively  near  the  fire,  and, 
when  she  arose,  held  out  l«is  hand  to  her,  say- 
ing, "  You  were  alarmed  then,  my  love  ?" 
"Yes,  dear."  "Why  would  you  go  on?" 


You  seemed  impatient  to  proceed. 


JJo 


you  not  know  that,  above  all  things,  I  dread 
exposing  you  to  pain  or  danger  1"  "  It  is  for 
Juliet  that  they  are  to  be  dreaded,"  taking  the 
little  one  on  her  lap  to  warm  it,  and  twisting 
round  her  fingers  the  beautiful  black  curls  that 
the  snow  had  matted  on  that  fair  brow.  The 
mother  and  child  formed  so  charming  a  pic- 
ture, that  Oswald  gazed  on  them  with  tender 
admiratior ;  but  Lucy's  silence  discouraged 
the  feeling  which  might  else  have  led  to  a  mu- 
tual understanding.  They  arrived  at  Turin, 
where  the  season  was  unusually  severe.  The  1 
vast  apartments  of  Italy  were  destined  to  re-  |l 
ceive  the  sun.  Their  freshness  in  summer  is  ' 


quired,  with  some  uneasiness,  if  she  wished  i  most  welcome  ;  but,  in  the  depth  of  winter. 


CORINNE  ,  OR,  ITALY. 


161 


they  seem  cheerless  deserts  ;  and  their  pos- 
sessors feel  like  pigmies  in  the  abode  of  giants. 
The  death  of  Alfieri  had  just  occasioned  a 
general  mourning  among  his  proud  country- 
men. Nelvil  no  longer  recognized  the  gaiety 
formerly  so  dear  to  him.  The  absence  of  her 
he  loved  disenchanted  hot  *  nature  and  art : 
I  he  sought  intelligence  of  "aer,  and  learnt  that 
'  for  five  years  she  had  p  -Wished  nothing,  but 
lived  in  seclusion  at  F\r.  -ence.  He  resolved 
on  going  thither ;  not  *-  remain,  and  thus  vio- 
late the  affection  he  e  »«d  to  Lucy,  but  to  tell 
Cnrinne  how  ignorar  fte  had  been  of  her  resi- 
dence in  Scotland  In  crossing  Lombardy  he 
sighed,  "  How  beautiful  this  was,  when  all 
those  elms  wet  i  in  full  leaf,  with  vines  linking 
them  toge»a<sr!  "How  beautiful  it  was," 
thought  Liny,  "  while  Corinne  shared  it  with 
you !"  A  humid  fog,  such  as  oft  arises  in  so 
well  watered  a  land,  obscured  their  view  of 
the  country.  During  the  night  they  heard  the 
deluge  of  southern  rain  fall  on,  nay,  through' 
the  roof,  as  if  water  were  pursuing  them  with 
all  the  avidity  of  fire.  Lucy  sought  in  vain 
for  the  charm  of  Italy  :  it  seemed  that  every- 
thing conspired  to  veil  it  in  gloom  for  Oswald 
and  herself. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SINCE  Lord  Nelvil  had  been  in  England  he 
had  not  spoken  a  word  of  the  language  ;  it 
even  made  him  ill  to  hear  it.  On  the  evening 
of  his  arrival  at  Milan  he  heard  a  tap  at  the 
door,  which  was  followed  by  the  entrance  of  a 
man,  whose  dark  and  prominent  features  would 
have  been  expressive  if  animated  by  natural 
enthusiasm  :  they  wore  an  unvaryingly  gra- 
cious style,  and  a  look  that  strove  to  be  poetical. 
He  stood  at  the  door,  improvising  verses  in 
praise  of  the  group  before  him,  but  such  as 
might  have  suited  any  other  husband,  wife,  or 
child,  just  as  truly  ;  and  so  exaggerated,  that 
the  speaker  seemed  to  think  poetry  ought  to 
have  no  connection  with  truth.  Oswald  per- 
ceived that  he  was  a  Roman  ;  yet,  harmonious 
as  were  the  sounds  he  uttered,  the  vehemence 
of  his  declamation  seemed  but  to  indicate  more 
plainly  the  unmeaning  insipidity  of  all  he  said. 
Nothing  could  be  more  painful  to  Oswald  than 
to  hear  the  Roman  tongue  thus  spoken,  for  the 
first  time  after  so  long  an  interval,  to  see  his 
dearest  memories  travestied,  and  feel  his  me- 
lancholy renewed  by  an  object  so  ridiculous. 
Lucy  guessed  all  this,  and  would  have  dis- 


11 


missed  the  improvisatore  ;  but  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  make  him  hear  her  :  he  paced  the  cham- 
ber all  gesture  and  exclamation,  heedless  of 
the  disgust  he  dealt  his  hearers,  proceeding 
like  a  machine  that  could  not  stop  till  after  a 
certain  moment.  At  last  that  time  arrived, 
and  Lucy  bade  him  depart. 

"  Poetic  language,"  said  Oswald,  "  is  so 
easily  parodied  here,  that  it  ought  to  be  for- 
bidden all  save  those  who  are  worthy  to  em- 
ploy it."  "  True,"  observed  Lucy,  perhaps  a 
little  too  pointedly  :  "  it  is  very  disagreeable  to 
be  reminded  of  what  you  admire,  by  such  a 
burlesque  as  we  have  just  endured."  "  Not 
so,"  he  answered  ;  "  the  contrast  only  makea 
me  more  deeply  feel  the  power  of  genius. 
This  same  language,  which  may  be  so  mise- 
rably degraded,  became  celestial  poetry  from 
the  lips  of  Corinne — your  sister."  Lucy  felt 
overwhelmed :  he  had  not  pronounced  that 
name  to  her  before  ;  the  addition  of  your  sister 
sounded  as  if  conveying  a  reproach.  She 
was  half  suffocated ;  and  had  she  given  way 
to  her  tears,  this  moment  might  have  proved 
the  sweetest  in  her  life ;  but  she  restrained 
them,  and  the  embarrassment  between  herself 
and  husband  became  more  painful  than  before. 
On  the  next  day  the  sun  broke  forth,  like  an 
exile  returning  to  his  own  land.  They  avail- 
ed themselves  of  his  brightness  to  visit  Milan 
Cathedral,  the  chef-d'oeuvre  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture :  it  is  built  in  the  form  of  a  cross, — 
fair  image  of  suffering  in  the  midst  of  wealth 
and  enjoyment.  Lofty  as  it  is,  the  ornaments 
are  as  elaborate  as  those  lavished  on  some 
minute  object  of  admiration.  What  time  and 
patience  must  it  have  cost !  This  persever-  j 
ance  towards  the  same  aim  is  transmitted  from  | 
age  to  age,  and  the  human  race,  stable  at  least 
in  thought,  can  leave  us  proofs  of  this,  imper- 
ishable almost  as  thought  itself.  A  gothic 
building  engenders  true  religion  :  it  has  been 
said  that  the  popes  have  consecrated  more 
wealth  to  the  building  of  modern  temples  than 
devotion  to  the  memory  of  old  churches.  The 
light,  falling  through  colored  glass,  the  singu- 
lar for&s  of  the  architecture,  unite  to  give  a 
silent  image  of  that  infinite  mystery  which 
the  soul  (or  ever  feels,  and  never  comprehends. 

Lord  and  Lady  Nelvil  left  Milan  when  the 
earth  was  covered  with  snow.  This  is  a  sad- 
der sight  in  Italy  than  elsewhere,  because  it 
is  unusual :  the  natives  lament  bad  weather  as 
a  public  calamity.  Oswald  was  vain  of  his 
favorite  country,  and  angry  that  it  would  not 
smile  its  best  for  Lucy.  They  passed  through 
Placenta,  Parma,  and  Modena.  The  churches 
and  palaces  of  each  are  too  vast,m  proportion 
to  the  number  and  fortunes  of  the  inhabitants  : 
one  would  say  that  these  towns  were  prepar- 
ed for  the  recep-vioa  of  some  great  personages, 


162 


CORINNE ;  OR,  ITALY. 


who  as  yet  had  but  sent  some  of  their  retinue 
forward.  On  the  morning  of  their  reaching 
Taro,  the  floods  were  thundering  from  the 
AJps  and  Appenines,  with  such  frightful  ra- 
pidity, that  their  roar  scarce  announced  them 
ere  they  came.  Bridges  are  hardly  practica- 
ble over  rivers  that  so  often  rise  above  the 
level  of  the  plain.  Oswald  and  Lucy  found 
their  course  suddenly  checked.  All  boats  had 
been  washed  away  by  the  current ;  and  they 
were  obliged  to  wait  till  the  Italians,  who 
never  hurry  themselves,  chose  to  bring  them 
back.  The  fog  confounded  the  water  with 
the  sky  ;  and  the  whole  spectacle  rather  re- 
sembled the  description  of  Styx,  than  the 
bounteous  streams  lent  to  refresh  the  burning 
south.  Lucy,  trembling  lest  the  intense  cold 
should  huTt  her  child,  bore  it  into  a  fisher's 
hut,  in  the  centre  of  which  a  fire  had  been 
kindled,  as  is  done  in  Russia. 

"  Where  is  your  lovely  Italy  ?"  she  asked 
Oswald,  with  a  smile.  "  I  know  not  when  I 
shall  regain  her,"  he  answered,  sadly.  Ap- 
proaching Parma,  and  all  the  cities  on  that 
road,  they  perceived  from  far  the  flat-terraced 
roofs  that  gave  Italy  so  original  an  air. 
Churches  and  spires  stand  forth  boldly  amid 
these  buildings ;  and,  after  seeing  them,  the 
northern  pointed  roofs,  so  constructed  to  per- 
mit the  snow  to  slide  off,  create  a  very  un- 
pleasant sensation.  Parma  still  preserves 
some  fine  pictures  by  Correggio.  Oswald 
took  Lucy  to  a  church  which  boasts  a.  fresco 
of  his,  La  Madonna  della  Scala :  while  he 
drew  the  curtain  from  before  it,  Lucy  raised 
Juliet  in  her  arms,  that  she  might  better  see 
the  picture ;  and  by  chance  their  attitude  was 
nearly  the  same  with  that  of  the  Virgin  and 
Child.  Lucy  had  so  much  of  the  modest 
grace  which  Correggio  loved  to  paint,  that 
Oswald  looked  from  the  ideal  to  the  real  with 
surprise.  As  she  noticed  this  her  eyes  fell, 
and  the  resemblance  became  still  more  stcong. 
Correggio  is,  perhaps,  the  only  painter  who 
knew  how  to  give  downcast  eyes  an  expres- 
sion affecting  as  those  raised  to  heaven.  The 
veil  he  throws  over  such  looks,  far  from  de- 
creasing their  thoughtful  tenderness,  lends  it 
the  added  charm  of  heavenly  mystery.  The 
Madonna  is  almost  detached  from  the  wall. 
A  breath  might  blow  its  hues  away  ;  this  fear 
gives  it  a  melancloly  interest :  its  adorers  oft 
return  to  bid  such  fleeting  beauty  a  fond  fare- 
well. As  they  left  the  church,  Oswald  said 
to  Lucy,  "A  little  while  and  that  picture 
will  be  no  more !  but  its  model  is  mine  own 
for  ever."  These  soft  words  touched  her 
heart :  she  pressed  his  hand,  about  to  ask  him 
if  he  could  not  trust  her  tenderness  ;  but, 
as  when  he  spoke  coldly,  her  pride  forbade 
complaint,  so  when  his  language  made  her 


blest,  she  dreaded  to  disturb  that  moment'* 
peace,  in  an  attempt  to  render  it  more  durable. 
Thus  always  she  found  reasons  for  her  silence, 
hoping  that  time,  resignation,  and  gentleness, 
might  bring  at  last  the  happy  day  which  would 
disperse  her  apprehensions. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

LORD  NELVIL'S  health  improved,  yet  cruel 
anxiety  still  agitated  his  heart.  He  con- 
stantly sought  tidings  of  Corinne,  but  every- 
where heard  the  same  report  as  at  Turin— 
namely,  that  nothing  was  known  of  her,  since 
she  saw  no  one  and  wrote  no  longer.  It  was 
not  thus  that  the  name  of  Corinne  was  for- 
merly announced !  Could  the  man  who  had 
destroyed  her  peace  and  fame  forgive  him- 
self! 

Travellers  drawing  near  Bologna  are  at- 
tracted by  two  very  high  towers  ;  the  one, 
however,  leans  so  obliquely  as  to  create  a 
sensation  of  alarm ;  vainly  is  it  said  to  have 
been  built  so,  and  to  have  lasted  thus  for  cen- 
turies ;  its  aspect  is  irresistibly  oppressive. 
Bologna  boasts  a  great  number  of  highly-in- 
formed men :  but  the  common  people  are  dis- 
agreeable. Lucy  listened  for  the  melodious 
Italian  of  which  she  had  been  told  ;  but  the 
Bolognese  dialect  painfully  disappointed  her. 
Nothing  more  harsh  can  exist  in  the  north. 
They  arrived  at  the  height  of  the  Carnival, 
and  heard,  both  day  and  night,  cries  of  joy 
that  sounded  like  those  of  rage.  A  popula- 
tion like  that  of  the  Lazzaroni  eat  and  sleep 
beneath  the  numerous  arcades  that  border  the 
streets  :  during  winter  they  carry  a  little  fire 
in  an  earthen  vessel.  In  cold  weather  no 

htly  music  is  heard  in  Italy  :  it  is  replaced 
in  Bologna  by  a  clamor  truly  alarming  to  for- 
eigners. The  manners  of  the  populace  are 
much  more  gross  in  some  few  southern  states 
than  can  be  found  elsewhere.  In-door  life 
perfects  social  order :  the  heat  that  per- 
mits people  to  live  thus  in  public  engen- 
ders many  savage  habits  (36).  Lord  and 
Lady  Nelvil  could  not  walk  forth  without  be- 
ing assailed  by  beggars,  the  scourge  of  Italy. 
As  they  passed  the  'prisons,  whose  barred 
windows  look  upon  the  street,  the  captives 
demanded  alms  with  immoderate  laughter. 
"  It  is  not  thus,"  said  Lucy,  "  that  our  people 
show  themselves  the  fellow-citizens  of  their 
betters.  Oh,  Oswald !  can  such  a  country 
please  you  V  "  Heaven  forbid,"  he  replied, 


CORINNE-  OR   ITALY 


163 


"  that  I  should  ever  forget  my  own !  but  when 
you  have  passed  the  Appenines  you  will  hear 
the  Tuscans, — meet  intellectual  and  animated 
beings,  who,  I  hope,  will  render  you  less  se- 
vere." 

Italians,  indeed,  must  be  judged  according 
to  circumstances.  Sometimes  the  evil  that 
hath  been  spoken  of  them  seems  but  true  ;  at 
others,  most  unjust.  All  that  has  previously 
been  described  of  their  governments  and  reli- 
gion proves  that  much  may  be  asserted  against 
them  generally,  yet  that  many  private  virtues 
are  to  be  found  amongst  them.  The  individ- 
uals chance  throws  on  the  acquaintance  of  our 
travellers  decide  the  notions  of  our  whole 
race :  such  judgment,  of  course,  can  find  no 
basis  in  the  institutions,  manners,  or  public 


spirit  of  the  country.  Oswald  and  Lucy  vis- 
ited the  collections  of  pictures  that  enrich  Bo- 
logna. Among  them  was  Domenichino's  Si- 
byl ;  before  which  Nelvil  unconsciously  lin- 
gered so  long,  that  his  wife  at  last  dared  ask 
him,  if  this  beauty  said  more  to  his  heart  than 
Correggio's  Madonna  had  done.  He  under- 
stood, and  was  amazed  at  so  significant  an 
appeal :  after  gazing  on  her  for  some  time,  he 
replied,  "  The  Sibyl  utters  oracles  no  more  : 
her  beauty,  like  her  genius,  is  gone  ;  but  the 
angelic  features  I  admired  in  Correggio  have 
lost  none  of  their  charms ;  and  the  unhappy 
wretch  who  so  much  wronged  the  one  will 
never  betray  the  other."  He  left  the  place 
to  conceal  his  agitation. 


BOOK     XX 

CONCLUSION. 


CHAPTER  I. 

AFTER  what  had  passed  in  the  gallery  of 
Bologna,  Oswald,  for  the  first  time,  compre- 
hended that  Lucy  was  aware  of  his  affection 
for  her  sister,  and  deemed  that  her  coolness 
might  have  sprung  from  secret  disquietude  : 
yet  now  he  feared  an  explanation  as  much  as 
she  had  done.  She  would  have  told  him  all 
had  he  required  it ;  but  it  would  have  cost  him 
too  much  to  speak  of  Corinne,  just  as  he  was 
about  to  rejoin  her,  especially  with  one  whose 
character  he  so  imperfectly  knew.  They 
crossed  the  Appenines.  and  regained  the 
sweet  climate  of  Italy.  The  sea  breeze,  so 
glowing  in  summer,  now  spread  a  gentle  heat. 
The  turf  was  green,  the  autumn  hardly  over, 
and  yet  the  spring  already  peeping  forth. 
The  markets  teemed  with  oranges  and  pome- 
granates. The  Tuscan  tongue  was-  audible  ; 
and  all  Oswald's  dearest  memories  revived, 
though  now  unmixed  with  hope.  The  mild 
air  of  the  south  acted  also  upon  Lucy's  feel- 
ings, she  would  have  been  more  confiding, 
had  he  encouraged  her,  but  they  were  both 
restrained  by  an  equal  timidity,  mutually  sus- 
picious  of  each  other's  feelings,  and  not  daring 
to  communicate  the  thoughts  which  they  en- 
tertained. Had  Corinne  been  in  the  situation 
of  either,  she  would  soon  have  learned  the 
other's  secret ;  but  the  more  congenial  they 


were,  in  natural  reserve,  the  less  easy  was  it 
for  them  to  break  the  restraint  which  kept 
their  hearts  asunder. 


CHAPTER  II. 

As  soon  as  they  arrived  in  Florence,  Nelvil 
wrote  to  Castel  Forte  ;  and  in  a  few  minutes 
the  Prince  came  to  him.  It  was  some  time 
ere  either  spoke ;  at  last  Nelvil  asked  for 
Corinne.  "  I  have  none  but  sad  news  'for 
you,"  said  her  friend  :  "  she  grows  weaker 
every  day ;  sees  no  one  but  myself,  and  can 
scarce  attempt  any  occupation  ;  yet  I  think 
she  has  been  calmer  since  we  learnt  you  were 
in  Italy  ;  though  I  cannot  disguise  from  you, 
that  at  first  her  emotions  on  that  intelligence 
caused  her  a  relapse  of  fever.  She  has  not 
told  me»her  intentions,  for  I  carefully  avoid 
your  name."  "  Have  the  goodness,  Prince," 
said  Oswald,  "  to  give  her  the  letter  I  wrote 
you  nearly  five  years  since  ;  it  contained  a 
detail  of  all  the  circumstances  that  prevented 
my  hearing  of  her  journey  to  Scotland  before 
I  married.  When  she  has  read  it,  ask  her  to 


164 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


receive  me.  I  long  to  justify  myself  with  her, 
if  possible.  Her  esteem  is  essential  to  me, 
though  I  no  longer  pretend  to  more." 
will  obey  your  desires,  my  Lord,"  said  Castel 
Forte,  "  and  wish  that  I  may  in  any  way  be  of 
service." 

Lady  Nelvil  now  entered  the  room.  Os- 
wald made  her  known  to  his  friend.  She 
met  him  coldly.  He  gazed  on  her  with  much 
attention,  sighed,  thought  of  Corinne,  and 
took  leave.  Oswald  followed  him.  "  Lady 
Nelvil  is  very  beautiful,"  said  the  Prince  : 
"  so  fresh  and  young !  Alas  !  my  poor  friend 
is  no  longer  so  ;  yet  forget  not,  my  Lord,  that 
she  was  a  brilliant  creature  when  you  saw 
her  first."  "Forget,"  exclaimed  Oswald: 
"  no,  nor  ever  forgive  myself."  He  could  ut- 
ter no  more,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  day  was 
gloomily  silent.  Lucy  sought  not  to  disturb 
teian  ;  her  forbearance  was  unlucky  ;  for  he 
only  thought,  "  Had  Corinne  beheld  me  sad, 
she  would  have  striven  to  console  me."  The 
next  morning  his  anxiety  early  led  him  to 
Castel  Forte.  "Well!"  he  cried,  "what 
says  s"he  V  "  That  she  will  not  see  you," 
answered  the  Prince.  "And  her  motives  V 
"  I  found  her  yesterday,  in  spite  her  weakness, 
pacing  the  room  all  agitation,  her  paleness 
sometimes  giving  way  to  a  vivid  blush,  that 
faded  as  suddenly  as  it  rose.  I  told  her  your 
request :  after  some  instants'  silence,  she  said 
— if  you  exact  from  me  her  own  words, — 
'  That  man  has  done  me  too  much  wrong  al- 
ready. The  foe  who  should  have  thrown  me 
into  prison,  banished  and  proscribed  me,  would 
not  have  torn  my  heart  as  he  has.  I  have 
suffered  more  than  woman  ever  suffered — al- 
ternate -fondness-  and  indignation,  making 
thought  a  perpetual  torture.  Oswald  should 
remember  that  I  once  told  him  it  would  cost 
me  more  to  renounce  my  admiration  than  my 
love.  He  has  despoiled  the  object  of  my 
worship  ;  he  has  deceived  me,  voluntary  or 
involuntary — it  is  no  matter  ;  he  is  not  what 
I  believed  him.  He  sported  for  nearly  a  year 
with  my  affection;  and,  when  he  ought  to 
have  defended  me,  when  his  actions  should 
have  proved  he  had  a  heart,  how  did  he  treat 
me  ?  Can  he  boast  of  having  made  one  gen- 
erous sacrifice  ?  No  !  he  is  happy  now,  pos- 
sessing all  the  advantage*  best  appreciated  by 
the  world.  I  am  dying  ;  lot  him  leave  me  in 
peace  /' " 

"  These  wo*d»  are  very  harsh,"  sighed  Os- 
wald. "  She  is  changed  "jy  suffering,"  ad- 
|  mitted  Castel  Forte  ;  "  yet  I  have  often  found 
her  so  charitable,  that,  let  me  own,  she  has 
defended  you  against  me."  "  You  think  me 
unpardonable  then !"  "  If  you  permit  me  to 
•ay  so.  The  injuries  we  may  do  women  hurt 
not  UB  in  public  opinion.  The  fragile  idol  of 


to-day  may  be  broken  to-morrow,  without 
finding  one  protector  ;  for  that  very  reason  do 
I  respect  the  sex,  whose  moral  welfare  can 
find  its  safety  but  in  our  bosoms.  A  moral 
stab  is  punished  by  the  law  ;  but  breaking  a 
tender  heart  is  a  theme  for  jest.  I  would  for- 
give murder  by  the  poniard  soonest."  "  Be- 
lieve me,"  cried  Nelvil,  "  I,  too,  have  been 
wretched, — that  is  my  sole  extenuation  ;  but 
formerly  she  would  have  listened  to  it,  now  it 
avails  me  nothing ;  yet  I  will  write  to  her  : 
I  still  believe,  in  spite  of  all  that  parts  us,  she 
may  yet  understand  me."  "  I  will  bear  your 
letter,  my  Lord  ;  but  I  entreat  you  temper  it 
well ;  you  guess  not  what  you  are  to  her. 
Years  can  but  deepen  an  impression,  when  no 
new  one  has  divided  its  empire.  Would  you 
know  in  what  state  she  is  in  at  present  *  A 
fantasy,  from  which  my  prayers  could  not 
divert  her,  will  give  you  an  idea  of  it." 
He  opened  the  door  of  another  room  ;  and 
Nelvil  first  beheld  a  portrait  of  Corinne  as 
she  appeared  in  Juliet,  on  the  night,  of  all 
others,  when  he  felt  most  enamored  of  her. 
The  confidence  of  happiness  breathed  from 
each  feature.  The  memories  of  that  festal 
time  came  back  on  Oswald's  heart ;  but 
as  he  yielded  to  them,  the  prince  took  his 
hand,  drew  aside  a  crape  from  another  picture, 
and  showed  him  Corinne  painted  that  same 
year,  in  the  black  dress,  such  as  she  had 
never  abandoned  since  her  return  from  Eng- 
land. Her  lost  lover  recollected  the  figure 
which  had  passed  him  in  the  Park  :  but  above 
all  was  he  struck  with  the  total  change  in 
her  appearance.  The  long  black  lashes  veil- 
ed her  languid  eyes,  and  threw  a  shadow  over 
the  tintless  cheek  :  beneath  was  written  this 
line,  from  the  pastor  Fido, — 

"  A  pcnsa  e\  puo  dir, '  Quesla  fu  rosa !' " 
'  Scarcely  can  we  now  say,  '  This  was  a  rose !'  " 

'  How !"  cried  Lord  Nelvil ;  "  looks  she 
like  this  V  "  Within  the  last  fortnight  still 
worse,"  returned  the  Prince :  and  Oswald 
rushed  from  him  as  if  distracted. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  unhappy  man  shut  himself  in  his  room. 
At  the  dinner  hour,  Lucy,  leading  Juliet  by 
the  hand,  tapped  gently  at  his  door  :  he  open- 
ed it,  saying,  "  Think  not  the  worse  of  me, 


CORINNE ;  OR,  ITALY. 


165 


my  dear,  for 
self  to-day."  His  wife  raised  her  child  in 
her  arms,  and  retired  without  a  word.  He 
now  looked  at  the  letter  he  had  written  to 
Corinne,  and,  bursting  into  tears,  exclaimed, 
"Shall  I,  then,  make  poor  Lucy  wretched 
too  ?  What  is  my  life  worth,  if  it  serves  but 
to  render  all  who  love  me  miserable  V 

LETTER  FROM  LORD  NELVIL  TO  CORINNE. 

"  Were  you  not  the  most  generous  of  hu- 
man beings,  what  could  I  say  to  you,  who 
might  weigh  me  so  low  by  your  reproaches, 
or  still  lower  by  your  griefs  1  I  have  done 
such  ill  to  her  I  loved,  that  I  almost  believe 
myself  a  monster.  Am  I,  Corinne  ?  I  suf- 
fer so  much,  that  I  cannot  think  myself  an 
utter  barbarian !  You  know,  when  first  I  met 
you,  I  was  a  prey  to  despair,  that  nearly 
brought  me  to  the  grave  :  I  sought  not  happi- 
ness, but  struggled  long  against  your  attrac- 
tios ;  even  when  it  triumphed,  presentiments 
of  misfortune  lingered  still.  Sometimes  I  be- 
lieved you  destined  by  my  father  to  make  me 
once  more  feel  myself  as  well  beloved  as  I 
had  been  by  him  ;  then  again  did  I  fear  that  I 
was  disobeying  his  will,  in  marrying  a  for- 
eigner, and  departing  from  the  line  of  my  du- 
ties and  my  situation  in  life.  On  my  return- 
ing to  England  this  sentiment  prevailed,  sanc- 
tioned as  it  was  by  parental  authority.  Had 
he  still  lived  I  should  have  felt  a  right  to 
combat  it ;  but  the  dead  cannot  hear  us,  and 
the  irrevocable  command  of  those  now  pow- 
erless, possesses  a  touching  and  a  sacred 
force. 

"  Once  more  surrounded  by  the  ties  of 
country,  I  met  your  sister,  selected  for  me  by 
my  sire,  and  so  well  according  with  my  wish 
for  a  regular,  a  quiet  life.  My  weakness  of 
character  makes  me  dread  some  kinds  of  agi- 
tation. My  mind  is  easily  seduced  by  new 
hopes  ;  but  my  sick  soul  shrinks  from  resolves 
that  interfere  with  its  original  habits  or  affec- 
tions. Yet,  Corinne,  had  I  known  you  were 
in  England,  that  proof  of  tenderness  would 
have  decided  me.  Ah!  wherefore  vaunt  I 
what  I  would  have  done  *  Should  we  have 
been  content  ?  Am  I  capable  of  being  so  ? 
Could  I  ever  have  chosen  any  one  fate,  with- 
out still  pining  after  some  other  1 

"  When  you  restored  my  liberty  I  fell  into 
the  common  error,  telling  myself  that  so  su- 
perior a  woman  might  easily  be  estranged 
from  me.  Corinne,  I  have  wounded  your 
heart,  I  know ;  but  I  thought  mine  the  only 
sacrifice  :  I  deemed  you  would  forget  me.  I 
cannot  deny  that  Lucy  is  worthy  of  a  still 
wanner  attachment  than  I  could  give  her  ; 
but  since  I  learnt  your  voyage  to  England, 


and  the  sorrow  I  had  dealt  you,  my  life  has 
been  a  perpetual  pain.  I  sought  for  death, 
certain  that  when  you  heard  I  was  no  more, 
you  would  forgive  me.  Doubtless  you  can 
oppose  to  this  years  of  fidelity  and  regret, 
such  as  my  ingratitude  ill  merits ;  yet  think 
— a  thousand  complicated  circumstances  in- 
vade the  constancy  of  man.  Imagine,  if  pos- 
sible, that  I  have  neither  given  nor  received 
felicity ;  that  my  heart  has  been  lonely  since 
I  left  you,  scarce  daring  even  to  commune 
with  itself ;  that  the  mother  of  my  child,  who 
has  so  many  titles  to  my  love,  is  a  stranger  to 
my  history  and  feelings ;  in  truth,  that  my  ha- 
bitual sadness  has  reduced  me  to  the  state 
from  which  your  cares,  Corinne,  once  extri- 
cated me.  If  1  have  returned'  to  Italy,  not 
for  my  health  (you  cannot  suspect  me  of  any 
love  for  life),  but  to  bid  you  farewell,  can  you 
refuse  to  see  me  but  once  more  ?  I  wish  it, 
because  I  think  it  would  benefit  you ;  my  own 
sufferings  less  prompt  this  desire.  What  use 
were  it  that  I  am  miserable,  that  a  dreadful 
weight  presses  upon  my  heart,  if  I  came 
hither  without  obtaining  pardon  from  you  ?  I 
ought  to  be  unhappy,  and  am  sure  of  being 
so  ;  but  I  feel  certain  that  you  would  be  so- 
laced, if  you  could  think  upon  me  as  your 
friend,  and  read,  in  Oswald's  looks  and  accents, 
how  dear  you  are  to  the  criminal  whose  fate 
is  far  more  altered  than  his  heart 

"  I  respect  the  ties  I  have  formed,  and  love 
your  sister ;  but  the  human  breast,  wild  and 
inconsistent  as  it  is,  can  reconcile  that  affec- 
tion with  what  I  feel  for  you.  I  have  nothing 
to  say  for  myself  that  can  be  written  ;  all 
I  might  explain  would  but  condemn  me  ;  yet 
if  you  saw  me  prostrate  before  you,  through 
all  my  faults  and  duties,  you  would  perceive 
what  you  are  to  me  still,  and  that  conversa- 
tion would  leave  a  blame  for  both.  Our  health 
is  failing  :  Heaven  may  not  accord  us  length 
of  days.  Let  then  whichever  may  be  des- 
tined to  precede  the  other,  feed  regretted  by 
the  dear  friend  left  behind.  The  innocent 
alone  deserve  such  joy  ;  but  may  it  not  be 
granted  to  the  guilty  1 

"  Corinne,  sublime  soul !  you  who  can  read 
all  hearts,  guess  what  I  cannot  add,  and  com- 
prehend me,  as  you  used  to  do.  Let  me  but 
see  you  ;  let  my  pallid  lips  touch  your  weak 
hand  !  It  was  not  I  alone  who  wrought  this 
ruin.  No  ;  the  same  sentiment  consumed  us 
both  ;  destiny  struck  two  hearts,  devoting  one 
to  crime  ;  and  that  one,  Corinne,  may  not  be 
the  least  pitiable." 

ANSWER    OF    CORINNE. 

"  If  I  required  but  to  see  and  pardon  you,  I 
could  not  for  an  instant  refuse.  Why  is  it 


166 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


that  I  do  not  feel  resentment,  although  the 
pangs  you  have  caused  me  are  so  dreadful  ? 
1  must  still  love  you,  since  I  do  not  hate. 
Religion  alone  would  not  disarm  me  thus. 
There  have  been  moments  when  my  reason 
has  left  me ;  others  far  sweeter,  when  I 
hoped  to  die  before  the  day  could  end ;  and 
some  in  which  I  have  doubted  even  virtue : 
you  were  to  me  its  image  here  below  :  there 
•was  no  guide  for  either  my  thoughts  or  feel- 
ings, when,  the  same  blow  struck  both  my  ad- 
miration and  my  love.  What  would  have 
become  of  me  without  Heaven's  help  1  Eve- 
rything in  this  world  was  poisoned  by  your 
image  :  one  sole  asylum  was  left,  and  God 
received  me.  My  strength  decays,  but  not 
that  supporting  enthusiasm.  I  joy  to  think 
that  the  best  aim  in  life  is  to  become  worthy 
of  eternity:  our  bliss,  our  bane,  alike  tend  to 
this  purpose  ;  and  you  were  chosen  to  uproot 
the  too  strong  hold  I  had  on  earth. 

"  Yet  when  I  heard  of  your  arrival  in  Italy, 
when  I  saw  your  hand-writing,  learnt  that 
you  were  but  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  a 
fearful  tumult  rose  within  me  :  incessantly 
was  I  obliged  to  tell  myself,  '  My  sister  is  his 
wife.'  To  see  you  again  appeared  felicity  : 
I  will  not  deny  that  my  heart,  inebriated 
afresh,  preferred  these  indefinite  raptures  to 
an  age  of  calm  !  but  Providence  has  not  aban- 
doned me  in  this  peril.  Are  you  not  the  hus- 
band of  another  1  What,  then,  have  I  to  say 
to  you  ]  Is  it  for  me  to  die  in  your  arms  ? 
What  would  my  conscience  surfer,  if  I  made 
no  sacrifice !  if  I  permitted  myself  another 
hour  with  you  *  I  can  only  appear  before  my 
God  with  anything  like  confidence  by  re- 
nouncing it.  This  resolution  may  appease 
my  soul.  Such  happiness  as  I  felt  while  you 
loved  me,  is  not  in  harmony  with  our  mortal 
state  ;  it  agitates  us,  because  we  feel  its  fleet- 
ness  :  but  religi6us  meditation,  that  aims  at 
self-improvement,  and  refers  every  cause  to 
duty,  is  a  state  of  peace  ;  and  I  know  not 
what  ravages  the  mere  sound  of  your  voice 
would  make  on  the  repose  I  believe  I  have 
regained.  It  has  much  afflicted  me  to  learn 
that  your  health  is  impaired.  Alas !  it  is  not 
I  who  can  watch  over  it ;  but  it  is  I  who  suffer 
with  you.  May  God  bless  and  prolong  your 
days,  my  lord  !  Be  happy,  but  be  so  through 
piety.  A.secret  community  with  the  Divinity 
gives  us  in  ourselves  the  power  of  confiding 
to  a  Being  who  consoles  us  :  it  makes  two 
friends  of  one  spirit.  Do  you  still  seek  for 
what  the  world  calls  happiness  7  Where  will 
you  find  more  than  my  tenderness  would  have 
bestowed  7  Know  you  that  in  the  deserts  of 
the  New  World  I  should  have  blest  my  lot, 
had  you  permitted  me  to  follow  you  ?  I  could 
have  served  you  like  a  slave,  have  knelt 


before  you  as  a  heavenly  being,  had  you  but 
loved  me  truly.  What  have  you  done  with 
so  much  faith  1  You  have  changed  it  into  an 
affliction  peerless  as  itself.  Outrage  me  not, 
then,  by  one  hope  of  happiness,  except  in 
prayer  ;  let  our  thoughts  meet  in  heaven  ! 

"  Yet  when  I  feel  myself  about  to  die,  per- 
haps I  will  be  taken  somewhere  whence  I 
may  behold  you  pass.  Assuredly  when  my 
failing  eyes  can  see  no  other  object,  your 
image  will  be  with  me  ;  but  might  not  a  re- 
cent review  of  your  features  render  it  more 
distinct  1  Deities  of  old  were  never  present  j 
at  the  hour  of  death,  I  would  forbid  you  mine  ; 
but  that  I  wish  this  recent  impression  traced 

on  my  sinking  soul. Oswald,  Oswald  1 

what  have  I  said !  behold  how  weak  I  am, 
when  abandoned  to  your  recollection  ! 

"  Why  has  not  Lucy  sought  me  "I  Though 
she  is  your  wife,  she  is  still  my  sister.  I 
have  some  kind  and  even  generous  things  to 
tell  her.  And  your  child — why  have-  they 
not  brought  her  to  me  ?  I  ought  not  to  meet 
you  ;  but  those  about  you  are  my  family.  Do 
they  disown  me  still  1  or  fear  they  that  poor 
little  Juliet  would  be  scared  at  seeing  me  T 
Ghost  as  I  look,  I  yet  could  smile  upon  your 
daughter.  Adieu,  my  lord,  adieu  !  Remem- 
ber that  I  might  call  you  brother,  as  my  sis- 
ter's spouse.  At  least  you  will  mourn  for  me 
externally,  and,  as  a  kinsman,  follow  my  re- 
mains to  Rome.  Let  them  be  borne  along 
the  road  where  my  triumphal  car  once  pass- 
ed ;  and  pause  upon  the  spot  where  you  re- 
stored my  crown.  Yet  no,  I  am  wrong,  Os- 
wald :  I  would  exact  nothing  that  could  afflict 
you  ;  only  one  tear,  and  sometimes  a  fond 
look  towards  the  heaven  where  I  shall  soon 
await  you." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MANY  days  elapsed  ere  Oswald  could  re- 
gain his  composure  :  he  avoided  the  presence 
of  his  wife,  and  passed  whole  hours  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  that  flowed  by  the  house  of 
Corinne  ;  often  tempted  to  plunge  amid  its 
waves,  that  they  might  bear  his  body  to  the 
abode  he  never  must  enter  living.  Amazed 
as  he  was  at  Corinne's  wish  to  see  her  sister, 
he  longed  to  gratify  it ;  yet  how  introduce  the 
subject !  He  saw  that  Lucy  was  hurt  by  his 
distress,  and  hoped  that  she  would  question 
him ;  but  she  forbore,  merely  expressing  a 
desire  to  visit  Rome  or  Naplss :  fcs  ilways 


CORINNE;  OR,  ITALY. 


167 


begged  a  brief  delay,  and  Lucy,  with  cold 
dignity,  was  silent. 

Oswald,  at  least,  could  secure  Corinne  the 
presence  of  his  little  daughter,  and  secretly 
bade  the  nurse  take  Juliet  to  her.  He  met 
them  on  their  return,  and  asked  the  child  how 
she  enjoyed  her  visit.  She  replied  by  an 
Italian  phrase,  and  with  an  accent  so  resem- 
bling Corinne's,  that  her  father  started. 
"  Who  taught  you  that,  dear  V  he  asked. 
"  The  lady,"  she  replied.  "  And  how  did  she 
behave  to  you  1"  "  Oh,  she  kissed  me,  and 
cried ;  I  don't  know  why ;  but  it  made  her 
worse,  for  she  looks  very  ill,  papa."  "  Do 
you  like  this  lady,  my  child  ?"  "  That  I  do. 
I'll  go  to  her  every  day.  She  has  promised 
to  teach  me  all  she  knows  :  and  says  that 
she  wishes  me  to  resemble  Corinne :  who  is 
that,  father  1  the  lady  did  not  tell  me."  Lord 
Nelvil  could  not  answer :  he  withdrew  to 
conceal  his  agitation,  but  bade  the  nurse  take 
Juliet  daily  to  Corinne.  Perhaps  he  erred  in 
disposing  of  his  child  without  her  mother's 
consent ;  but  in  a  few  days  the  young  pupil's 
progress  was  astonishing :  her  masters  for 
Italian  and  music  were,  all  amazed. 

Nothing  had  ever  pained  Lucy  more  than 
her  sister's  influence  over  Juliet's  education. 
The  child  informed  her  that,  ill  as  the  lady 
seemed,  she  took  great  pains  with  her. 
Lucy's  heart  would  have  melted,  could  she 
have  seen  all  this  anything  but  a  design  to 
win  Nelvil  back.  She  was  divided  between 
the  natural  wish  of  being  sole  directress  for 
her  daughter,  and  self-reproach  at  the  idea  of 
withholding  her  from  such  valuable  instruc- 
tions. One  day  Oswald  came  in  as  Juliet 
was  practising  a  music  lesson.  She  held  a 
lyre  proportioned  to  her  size  ;  and  her  pretty 
arms  fell  into  Corinne's  own  attitude  so  per- 
fectly, that  he  felt  gazing  on  the  miniature 
copy  of  a  fine  picture,  with  the  added  grace 
of  childish  innocence.  He  could  not  speak, 
but  sunk,  trembling,  on  a  seat.  Juliet  then 
played  the  Scotch  air  which  he  had  heard  at 
Tivoli,  before  the  design  from  Ossian ;  he 
listened  breathlessly.  Lucy,  unseen,  stole 
behind  him  :  as  Juliet  ceased,  her  father  took 
her  on  his  knee,  and  said,  "  The  lady  on  the 
banks  of  the  Arno  taught  you  this,  did  she 
not  V  "  Yes,  papa ;  but  it  hurt  her  very 
much :  she  was  so  ill  while  she  taught  me, 
that  I  begged  her  to  leave  off,  but  she  would 
not.  She  made  me  promise  to  play  you  that 
tune  every  year,  on  a  particular  day — I  be- 
lieve it  was  the  17th  of  November."  "  My 
God '."  cried  Oswald,  bursting  into  tears. 

Lucy  now  stepped  forward,  and  taking 
Juliet  by  the  hand,  said,  hastily,  "  My  lord,  it 
its  too  much  to  rob  me  of  my  child's  affection ; 
that  solace,  at  least,  is  due  to  my  misfortunes." 


She  retired.  Oswald  would  have  followed 
her,  but  was  refused.  At  the  dinner  hour  he 
was  told  that  she  had  been  out  for  some  time, 
not  saying  where.  He  was  fearfully  alarmed 
at  her  absence  ;  but  she  shortly  returned,  with 
a  calm  and  gentle  air,  such  as  he  little  ex- 
pected. He  would  now  have  confided  in  her, 
and  gained  her  pardon  by  sincerity,  "but  she 
replied,  "  Explanation,  indeed,  is  needful  to 
us  both ;  yet,  my  dear  lord,  permit  me  still  to 
defer  it :  you  will  soon  know  my  motives  for 
this  request." 

Her  address,  he  perceived,  was  more  ani- 
mated than  usual ;  and  every  day  its  warmth, 
its  interest,  increased.  He  could  not  under- 
stand this  change  ;  its  cause  is  soon  told.  All 
that  Lucy  so  long  had  hidden  in  her  heart, 
escaped  in  the  brief  reproach  she  made  her 
husband  ;  and,  as  usually  happens  to  persons 
who  suddenly  break  from  their  habitual  char- 
acter, she  now  ran  into  extremes,  resolving 
to  seek  Corinne,  and  ask  her  if  she  had  deter- 
mined perpetually  to  disturb  her  wedded 
peace ;  but,  as  she  arrived  at  her  sister's 
door,  her  diffidence  returned  ;  nor  could  she 
have  had  courage  to  enter,  had  not  the  invalid, 
who  saw  her  from  a  window,  sent  Theresina 
to  entreat  her.  Lucy  ascended  to  the  sick 
chamber,  and  all  her  anger  vanished  at  sight 
of  its  occupant.  The  sisters  embraced  in 
tears.  Corinne  then  set  an  example  of  frank- 
ness which  it  was  impossible  for  Lucy  not 
to  follow.  Such  was  that  mind's  ascendency 
over  every  one,  that,  in  her  presence,  neither 
dissimulation  nor  constraint  could  be  pre- 
served. Her  pale  looks  and  her  weakness 
confirmed  her  assertion,  that  she  had  not  long 
to  live  :  this  sad  truth  added  weight  to  her 
counsels.  All  Castel  Forte  had  told  her,  and 
ail  she  had  guessed  from  Oswald's  letters, 
proved  that  reserve  and  coldness  separated 
Lucy  and  himself  from  each  other.  She  en- 
tered very  simply  on  this  delicate  subject : 
her  perfect  knowledge  of  the  husband's  char- 
acter enabled  her  to  point  out  why  he  re- 
quired to  find  spontaneously  in  those  he  loved 
the  confidence  which  he  could  not  solicit,  and 
to  be  received  with  cheerfulness  proportioned 
;o  his  own  susceptibility  of  discouragement. 
She  described  her  past  self-impartiality,  as  if 
speaking  of  another,  and  showed  how  agree- 
able it  must  be  for  a  man  to  find,  united  with 
moral  conduct,  that  desire  to  please  which  is 
often  inspired  by  a  wish  to  atone  lor  the  loss 
of  virtue. 

"  Many  women,"  said  she,  "  have  been 
beloved,  not  merely  in  spite  of,  but  for  the 
sake  of  their  very  errors ;  because  they 
strove  to  extort  a  pardon  by  being  ever  agree- 
able, and  having  so  much  need  of  indulgence 
dared  impose  no  laws  on  others.  Therefore, 


168 


CORINNE  ;    OR,  ITALY. 


dear  sister,  pride  not  yourself  in  your  per- 
fections ;  let  your  charm  consist  in  seeming 
to  forget  them ;  be  Corinne  and  Lucy  in  one : 
nor  let  your  own  worth  excuse  to  you  a  mo- 
ment's neglect  of  your  graces,  nor  your  self- 
respect  render  your  manners  repulsive.  Were 
your  dignity  ill  founded,  it  might  wound  him 
less ;  for  an  over-exertion  of  certain  rights 
chills  the  heart  more  than  do  unjust  preten-' 
sions.  Love  delights  in  paying  more  than  is 
due,  where  nothing  is  exacted."  Lucy  thank- 
ed her  sister  with  much  tenderness  for  the 
interest  thus  generously  evinced  in  her  wel- 
fare ;  and  Corinne  resumed — "  If  I  were 
doomed  to  live,  I  might  not  be  capable  of  it ; 
but  now  my  only  selfish  wish  is,  that  Oswald 
should  find  some  traces  of  my  influence  ir. 
you  and  in  his  child  ;  nor  ever  taste  one  rap- 
ture that  reminded  him  not  of  Corinne." 
Lady  Nelvil  returned  to  her  every  day,  and, 
with  the  most  amiable  delicacy,  studied  to 
resemble  the  being  so  dear  to  her  lord.  His 
curiosity  increased,  as  he  remarked  the  fresh 
attractions  she  thus  acquired  :  he  knew  that 
she  must  owe  them  to  Corinne  ;  yet,  Lucy 


mand  this  of  you  now.*'  Oswald  was  fear- 
fully agitated,  wondering  what  subject  she 
had  chosen,  and  whether  she  would  recite 
herself:  the  bare  possibility  of  .coking  on 
her  threw  him  into  extreme  confrsion.  The 
morning  came,  and  winter  frowned  on  it  with 
all  the  sternness  of  the  north :  the  wind 
howled,  the  rain  beat  violently  against  the 
windows,  and,  by  an  eccentricity  more  fre- 
quent in  Italy  than  elsewhere,  the  thunder 
added  a  sense  of  dread  to  all  this  gloom.  Os- 
wald conld  not  speak  :  everything  around 
him  increased  the  desolation  of  his  soul.  He 
entered  the  hall  wkh  Lucy  :  it  was  immensely 
crowded.  In  an  obscure  recess  was  placed  a 
sofa,  whereon  Corinne  was  to  recline,  being 
too  ill  to  read  her  own  verses.  Dreading  to 
show  herself,  changed  as  she  was,  she  had 
chosen  those  means  of  seeing  Oswald  unseen. 
As  soon  as  she  knew  that  he  was  there,  she 
veiled  her  face,  and  was  supported  to  this 
couch  ;  from  time  to  time  staying  to  take 
breath,  as  if  that  short  space  had  been  a  painful 
journey  :  the  last  steps  of  life  are  ever  slow 
and  difficult.  Seating  herself,  her  eyes  sought 


having  promised  to  keep  the  secret  of  their  j  Oswald,  found  him,  and  involuntarily  startii 
meetings,  no  explanation  occurred.  The  suf- 
ferer proposed  yet  to  see  the  wedded  pair 
together,  but  not  till  she  was  assured  that  she 
had  but  a  few  moments  to  live ;  but  she  in- 
volved this  plan  in  so  much  mystery,  that 
Lucy  knew  not  in  what  manner  it  was  to  be 
accomplished. 


CHAPTER  V. 

CORINNE  desired  to  bid  Nelvil  and  Italy 
such  a  farewell  as  might  recall  the  days  on 
which  her  genius  shone  with  full  splendor. 
A  pardonable  weakness!  Love  and  glory 
were  ever  blended  in  her  mind ;  and,  at  the 
moment  when  her  heart  was  about  to  resign 
all  earthly  ties,  she  wished  Oswald  to  fed, 
once  more,  that  it  was  the  greatest  woman  of 
her  day  he  had  destroyed — the  woman  who 
best  knew  how  to  love  and  think — whose 
brilliant  success  he  had  obscured  in  misery 
and  death. 

She  had  no  longer  the  strength  required  by 
an  improvisatrice  ;  but  in  solitude,  since  Os- 
wald's return,  had  resumed  her  zest  for  writing 
poetry :  she,  therefore,  named  a  day  for  as- 
sembling, in  one  of  the .  galleries,  all  who 
desired  to  hear  her  verses,  begging  Lucy  to 
bring  her  husband  ;  addirgj  "  I  feel  I  may  de- 


up,  she  spread  her  arms ;  but  instantly  fell 
back,  turning  away  her  face,  like  Dido  when 
she  met  ^Eneas  in  a  world  which  human 
passions  should  not  penetrate.  Castel  Forte 
detained  Lord  Nelvil,  who,  now  utterly  beside 
himself,  would  have  flown  to  fall  at  her  feet : 
the  Prince  reminded  him  of  the  respect  he 
owed  Corinne  before  the  world. 

A  young  girl,  dressed  in  white,  and  crown- 
ed with  flowers,  now  appeared  on  the  stage 
which  had  been  erected.  Her  meek  and 
peaceful  face  touchingly  contrasted  the  senti- 
ments she  was  about  to  breathe  ;  it  was  Co- 
rinne's  taste,  which  thus  mingled  something 
sweet  with  thoughts  in  themselves  too  dreary. 
Music  nobly  and  affectingly  prepared  the  au- 
ditors. The  hapless  Oswald  could  not  tear 
his  eyes  from  Corinne  ;  she  was  to  him  as  an 
apparition  that  haunts  a  night  of  fever  ;  it 
was  through  his  own  deep  sighs  that  he  heard 
the  death-song  of  the  swan,  which  the  woman 
he  had  so  much  wronged,  addressed  to  his 
heart. 


THE    LAST   BOKO    Or   COBINXB. 


Take  ye  my  solemn  farewell !  O  my  friends, 
Already  nipht  is  darkening  on  my  eyes; — 
But  is  not  Heaven  most  beautiful  by  night  7 
Thousands  of  stars  shine  in  the  kindling  sky, 
Which  is  an  azure  desert  during  day. 
Thus  do  the  gathering  of  eternal  shade* 
Reveal  innumerable  thoughts,  half  lost 
In  the  full  daylight  of  prosperity. 
But  weaken'd  in  the  voice  which  might  instruct; 
The  soul  retires  <vithin  itself,  and  seeks 
To  gather  round  itself  Its  falling  fire. 


CORINNE ;  OR,  ITALY. 


169 


From  my  first  days  of  youth,  my  inward  hope 
Was  to  do  honor  to  the  Roman  name  ; 
That  name  at  which  the  startled  heart  yet  beats. 
Ye  have  allow 'd  me  fame,  O  generous  land! 
Ye  banish  not  a  woman  from  the  shrine! 
Ye  do  not  sacrifice  immortal  gifts 
To  passing  jealousies.     Ye  who  Btill  yield 
Applause  to  Genius  in  ita  daring  flight ; 
Victor  without  the  vanquished,— Conqueror, 
Yet  without  spoil ;— who,  from  eternity, 
Draws  riches  for  all  time. 

Nature  and  Life !  with  what  deep  confidence    • 
Ye  did  inspire  me.    I  deera'd  all  grief  arose 
From  that  we  did  not  feel,  or  think  enough ; 
And  that  we  might,  even  on  this  our  earth, 
Beforehand  taste  that  heavenly  happiness, 
Which  is— but  length  in  our  enthusiasm, 
But  constancy  in  love. 

No,  I  repent  it  not,  this  generous  faith ; 
No — that  caused  not  the  bitter  tears  I've  shed, 
Watering  the  dust  which  doth  await  me  now. 
I  had  accomplished  all  my  drstiny— 
I  had  been  worthy  all  the  gifts  of  Heaven, 
If  I  had  only  vow'd  my  sounding  lyre 
To  celebrate  that  goodness  all  divine, 
Made  manifest  throughout  the  universe. 

And  thou,  my  God  .—Oh,  thou  wilt  not  reject 
The  offering  of  the  mind ;  for  poetry, 
Its  homage  is  religious,  and  the  wings 
Of  Bought  but  serve  to  draw  more  near  to  the*. 

Religion  has  no  limits,  and  no  bonds  ;— 
The  vast,  the  infinite,  and  the  eternal, 
Never  from  her  may  Genius  separate. 
Imagination  from  its  earliest  flight, 
Past  o'er  the  bounds  of  life :  and  the  sublime 
In  the  reflection  of  divinity. 

Alas  !  my  God,  had  I  loved  only  thee ; 
If  I  had  raised  my  head  aloft  in  heaven — 
From  passionate  affections  shelter'd  there, 
I  had  not  now  been  crush'd  before  my  time — 
Phantoms  had  not  displaced  my  brilliant  dreami 
Unhappy  one,  if  yet  my  genius  lives, 
I  only  know  it  by  my  strength  of  grief  ^ 
Under  the  features  of  an  enemy 
I  recognize  it  now. 

Farewell,  my  birth  place !  farewell,  my  own  land 
Farewell,  remembrances  of  infancy, 
Farewell !    Ah,  what  have  ye  to  do  with  death  1 
And  ye,  who  in  my  writings  may  have  found 
Feelings,  whose  echo  was  within  your  soul, 
Oh,  friends  of  mine — where'er  ye  be, — farewell! 
Corinne  has  suffer'd  much — but  suffer'd  not 
la  an  unworthy  cause :  she  has  not  lost 
At  least,  her  claim  on  pity. 

Beautiful  Italy  !  it  is  in  rain 
To  promise  me  your  loveliness ;  my  heart 
Is  worn  and  wasted  ;  what  can  ye  avail  ? 
Would  ye  revive  my  hopes,  to  edge  my  griefs  1 
Would  ye  recall  my  happiness,  and  thus 
Make  me  revolt  against  my  fate  t 

Meekly  I  do  submit  myself.    Ob,  ye 
Who  may  survive  me,— when  the  spring  returns, 
Remember  how  I  loved  its  loveliness  ! 
How  oft  I  sang  its  perfumes  and  its  air. 
I  pray  you  sometimes  to  recall  a  line 
From  out  my  songs,— my  soul  is  written  there  i 
But  fatal  Muses,  love  and  misery 
Taught  my  best  poetry. 

When  the  designs  of  mighty  Providence 
Are  work'd  in  us,  hrtemal  music  marks 
The  coming  of  the  angel  of  the  grave : 
Nor  fearful,  nor  yet  terrible,  he  spreads 
His  white  wings ;  and,  though  compass'd  by  night, 
A  thousand  omens  tell  of  his  approach. 


If  the  wind  murmurs,  then  they  seem  to  hear 
His  voice ;  and  when  night  falls,  the  shadows  round 
Seem  the  dark  foldings  of  his  sweeping  robe. 
At  noon,  whem  life  see*  only  the  clear  iky 
Feels  only  the  bright  sun,  the  fated  one 
Whom  Death  hath  called,  upon  the  distance  marks 
The  heavy  shade  which  is  so  soon  to  shroud 
All  nature  from  their  eyes. 

Youth,  hope,  emotions  of  the  heart— ye  all 
Are  now  no  more.    Far  from  me — vain  regrets ; 
If  I  can  yet  obtain  some  falling  tears, 
If  I  can  yet  believe  myself  beloved, 
It  B  because  I  am  about  to  die. 
Could  I  recall  my  fleeting  life,— that  life, 
Soon  would  it  turn  upon  me  all  its  stings. 

And  Rome  !  Rome,  where  my  ashes  will  be  borae ! 
Thou  who  hast  seen  so  many  die,  forgive, 
It  with  a  tremb!  ing  step,  I  join  the  shades, 
The  multitude  c-f  your  illustrious  dead  ! 
Forgive  me  for  aiy  pity  of  myself. 
Feelings,  and  I  oble  thoughts,  such  thoughts  perchance, 
As  might  have  yielded  fruit— expire  with  me. 
Of  all  the  powers  of  mind  which  nature  gave, 
The  power  of  suffering  has  been  the  sole  one, 
Which  I  have  used  to  its  extent. 

It  matters  not. — I  do  obey. — Whate'er 
.May  be  the  mighty  mystery  of  death, 
That  mystery  at  least  must  give  repose. 
Ye  do  not  answer  me,  ye  silent  tombs ! 
Merciful  God,  thou  dost  not  answer  me ! 
I  made  my  choice  on  earth,  and  now  my  heart 
Has  no  asylum.    Ye  decide  for  me, 
And  sach  a  destiny  is  best.  L.  E.  L. 

Thus  ended  the  last  song  of  Corinne.    The 
hall  resounded  with  deep,  sad  murmurs  of  ap- 
plause.    Lord  Nelvil  could  not  support  the  | 
violence  of  his  emotion,  but  fell  senseless  to  , 
the  ground.     Corinne,  beholding  him  in  this 
condition,  would  have  flown  to  him,  but  her 
strength  failed  as  she  attempted  to  rise.     She 
was  borne  home,  and  from  that  hour  no  hopes  1 
were  entertained  of  saving  her.     Lucy  hast-  | 
ened  to  her,  so  afflicted  by  her  husband's  i 
grief,  that  she  threw  herself  at  her  sister's  j 
feet,  imploring  her  to  admit  him ;  but  Corinne  ' 
refused.     "  I   forgive   him,"   she  said,  "  for 
having  broken    my   heart.     Men  know  not 
what  they  do  ;  the  world  persuades  them  that 
it  is  sport  to  fill  a.  heart  with  rapture,  and  then 
consign  it  to  despair ;  but  God's  free  grace 
has  given  me  back  composure.     The  sight  of 
Oswald  would  revive  sensations  that  ill  befit 
a  death-bed.     Religion  only  possesses  the  se- 
cret clue  through  this  terrific  labyrinth.     I 
pardon  the  being  I  so  loved,"  she  continued, 
with  a  failing  voice  ;  "  may  he  be  happy  with 
you  !  but  when  in  his  turn  he  is  called  on  to 
die,  then  may  he  recollect  the  poor  Corinne. 
She  will  watch  over  him,  if  Heaven  permits ; 
for  those  never  cease  to  love,  whose  love  has 
had  the  strength  to  cost  them  life." 

Oswald  stood  at  her  door,  sometimes  about 
to  enter,  spite  her  prohibition,  sometimes  mo- 
tionless with  sorrow.  Lucy  passed  from  one 
to  the  other,  like  an  angel  of  peace,  between 
despair  ami  death.  One  evening  Corinne  ap- 


170 


CORINNE  ;  OR,  ITALY. 


peared  more  easy,  and  the  parents  went  for  a 
short  time  to  their  child,  whom  they  had 
not  seen  for  three  days.  During  their  ab- 
sence the  dying  woman  performed  all  the  du- 
ties of  religion ;  then  said  to  the  reverend 
man  who  received  her  last  solemn  confession, 
"  Now,  father,  you  know  my  fate.  Judge 
me !  I  have  never  taken  vengeance  on  my 
foes  ;  the  griefs  of  others  never  asked  my 
sympathy  in  vain  ;  my  faults  sprung  but  from 
passions  not  guilty  in  themselves,  though  hu- 
man pride  and  weakness  led  them  to  excess 
and  error.  Think  you,  my  father — you  who 
have  so  much  longer  experience  than  I — that 
God  will  pardon  me  V  "  Yes,  child,  I  hope 
so — is  not  your  heart  now  wholly  his  V  "  I 
believe  it,  father  ;  take  away  this  portrait,  it 
is  Oswald's  ;  lay  on  my  breast  the  image  of 
Him  who  descended  to  this  life — not  for  the 
powerful,  nor  the  inspired,  but  for  the  sufferer, 
the  dying  ;  they  need  his  mercy."  She  then 
perceived  Castel  Forte,  who  wept  beside  her 
bed,  and  hplding  out  her  hand  to  him,  ex- 
claimed, "  My  friend  !  you  only  are  beside  me 
now.  I  lived  for  love  ;  yet,  but  for  you, 
should  die  alone."  Her  tears  fell  as  she 
spoke,  yet  she  added,  "  There  is  no  help  for 


such  a  moment ;  friends  can  but  follow  us  to 
the  brink  ;  there  begin  thoughts  too  deep,  too 
troubled,  to  be  confided."  She  begged  they 
would  remove  her  to  a  sofa,  whence  she  could 
gaze  upon  the  sky.  Lucy  now  came  to  her 
side  ;  and  the  unhappy  Oswald,  following  his 
wife,  fell  at  the  feet  of  Corinne,  who  would 
have  spoken  to  him,  but  her  voice  failed :  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  heaven;  the  moon  was 
covered-  with  just  such  a  cloud  as  they  had 
seen  on  their  way  to  Naples.  Corinne  point- 
ed to  it  with  a  dying  hand — one  sigh — and 
that  hand  sunk  powerless.  ( 

Oswald  fell  into  such  distraction  that  Lucy 
trembled  for  his  life.  He  followed  the  fune- 
ral train  to  Rome  ;  then  retired  to  Tivoli, 
where  he  remained  long,  without  seeing  even 
his  wife  and  child.  At  last,  duty  and  affec- 
tion restored  him  to  them  :  they  returned  to 
England.  Lord  Nelvil's  domestic  life  became 
most  exemplary  :  but  did  he  ever  pardon  his 
pa&t  conduct  ?  Could  the  approving  world 
console  him  t  After  the  fate  he  had  enjoyed, 
could  he  content  himself  with  common  life  1 
I  know  not :  nor  will  I,  on  that  head,  either 
absolve  or  condemn  him 


NOTES. 


(1)  Ancona  is  not  much  better  supplied  to  this  day. 

(2)  This  observation  is  made  in  a  letter  on  Rome,  by 
M.   Humboldt,  brother  to  the   celebrated   traveller,   and 
Prussian  minister  at  Rome ;  a  gentleman  whose  writings 
and  conversation  alike  do    honor    to  his    learning   and 
originality. 

(3)  Ail  eiception  must  be  made  in  favor  of  Monti,  who 
reads  verse  as  well  as  he  writes  it.    There  can  be  fuw 
greater  dramatic  treats  than  to  hear  him  recite  the  episode 
of  Ugolino — of  Francesca,  or  the  death  of  Clorinda. 

(4)  Lord  Ne)  vil  must  have  alluded  to  the  beautiful  line* 
of  Propertius, — 

"Ut  caput  in  mainis  ubi  non  est  ponere  signis ; 
Ponitur  hie  imos  ante  corona  pedes." 


(5)    A  Frenchma 
during  the  last  i 


commanded  the  castle  of  St.  AngeU 
arnoned  by  the  Neapo- 


litans to  surrender,  replied,  that  he  would  do  BO  whe 
the  bronze  angel  sheathed  his  sword, 

(6)  These  facts  are  found  in  "  A  History  of  the  Italian 
Republics,  during  the  middle  Ages,"  by  M.  Sismondi,  of 
Geneva;  an  author  of  profound  sagacity,  equally  consci- 
entious and  energKic. 

(7)  "Eine  Welt  zwar  bistdu,  oRoml  doch  ohne  die 
Libe  War?  die  Welt  nicht  die  Welt,  ware  denn  Rom  iwcht 
nfcht  Rom,"  says  Goethe,  the  poet  and  philosopher,  of  all 
our  modern  men  of  letters  the  most  remarkable  for  imagi- 
nation. 

(8)  It  is  said  that  the  building  of  St.  Peter's  was  one 
of  the  principal  causes  of  the  Reformation ;  aa  it  cost  the 
popes  so  much,  that  they  multiplied  the  sale  of  Indulgences. 

(9)  Mineralogists  affirm  that  these  lions  are  not  basaltic, 
because  the  volcanic  stone  now  so  called  was  never  found 
in  Egypt ;  but  as  Pliny  and  Winckelman  (the  historian  of 
the  arts)  both  give  them  that  name,  I  avail  myself  of  its 
primitive  acceptation.     , 

(10)  Carpite  nunc,  tauri,  de  septem  collibus  herbas, 
Duin  licet,  hie  magnx  jam  locus  urbis  erit. 

TlBULJUS. 

Hoc  quodcumque  vides,  hospes  quam  maxima  Roma  est, 
Ante  Phrygem  ^Enean  collis  et  herba  fuit,  tc. 

PROPKRTIUS. 

(11)  Augustus  expired  at  Nola,  on  his  way  to  the  waters 
of  Krundisium,  which  were  prescribed  him.    He  left  Rome 
in  a  dying  state. 

(12)  Viximus  insignes  inter  utramque  facem. 

PtiOPtRTlVB. 

(13)  Plin.  Hist.  Nat,  1.  3.    Tiberis,  quam  libet  magno- 
rum  navium  ei  Italo  mari  capax,  rerum  in  toto  orbe  nas- 
ceRtium  mercator  placidiseimus,  pluribus  probe  solus  quam 
ceteriin  omnibus  terris  amnes,  accolitur,  aspiciturque  villis. 
Nullique  fluviorum  minus  licet,  include  utrinque  laterihus : 
nee  tamen  ipse  pugnat,  quanquam  creber  ac  subitis  incre- 
mentis,  et  nuijqu:im  magis  aquis  quam  in  ipsaurbe  «tagnan- 
tibus.    Quin  iino  vates  inlelligitur  potius  ac  monitur,  auctu 
semper  religiosus  verius  quam  saevus. 

(14)  The  dancing  of  Madame  Recamier  g2ve  me  the 
idea   which  I  endeavored  to  express.     This  celebrated 
beauty,  in  the  midst  of  afflictions,  displayed  so  touching  a 
resignation,  so  total  a  forgetfulness  of  self,  that  her  moral 

extraordinary  as  her  personal  grace. 


(15)  Mr.  Roscoe,  author  of  the  "  History  of  the  Medici," 
has  since  published  that  of  Leo  X.,  which  recounts  the 
proofs  of  admiring  esteem  given  by  the  princes  and  people 
of  Italy  to  men  of  letters;  impartially  adding,  that  many 
of  the  popes  have  emulated  this  liberality. 

(16)  Cesarotti,  Verri,  and  Bettinelli,  three  modem  au- 
thors, have  instilled  inore  thought  into  Italian  prose  than 
has  been  bestowed  on  it  for  many  years. 

(17)  Giovanni  Pindemonte  has  published  a  series  of 
dramas  founded  on  Italian  history  ;  a  most  praiseworthy 
enterprise.    The  name  of  Pindemonte  is  aJso  ennobled  by 
Hippolixx,  one  of  Italy's  sweetest  modern  poets. 

(18)  Alfieri's  posthumous  works  have  been  printed. 
It  will  ke  seen,  by  the  eccentric  experiment  which  he  tried 
on  his  '.ragedy  of  Abel,  that  he  himself  thought  hia  style 
too  austere,  and  that  the  stage  required  entertainments  of 
greater  fancy  and  variety. 

(19)  I  have  allowed  myself  to  borrow  some  passages 
from  a  discourse  on  death,  which  may  be  found  in  '  The 
Course  of  Relijrious    Morals,"  by  M.  Necker.     Annher 
work  of  his,  "The  Importance  of  Religious  Opinions, '  had 
a  more  brilliant  success,  and  is  sometimes  confused  with 
this,  which  appeared  when  public  interest  was  distracted 
by  political  events ;  but  I  dare  affirm,  that "  The  Course  of 
Religiois  Morals"  is  my  father's  most  eloquent  production. 
No  statesman,  I  believe,  ever  before  composed  volumes  far 
the  Christian  pulpit ;  and  this  kind  of  writing,  from  a  man 
who  had  so  much  to  do  with  men,  shows  a  knowledge  af 
the  human  heart,  and  the  indulgence  that  knowledge  in- 
spires.   It  appears  that,  in  two  respects,  these  Essays  are 
completely  original.    A  religious  man  is  usually  a  recluse. 
Men  cf  the  world  are  seldom  religious.     Where,  thec, 
shall  we  find  united  such  observation  of  life,  and  such 
elevatoo  of  soul,  that  looks  beyond  it?    I  should  say 
iV-arles  of  finding  my  opinion  attributed  to  partiality,  that 
this  book  is  one  of  the  first  among  those  which  console  the 
feelics  heart,  and  interest  the  reflective  mind,  on  the  great 
questions  which  are  incessantly  agitating  them  both. 

(20'-  From  a  journal  called  "  Europe,"  I  have  derived 
many  valuable  observations  on  painting, — an  inexhaustible 
subject  for  theii  author,  M.  Frederic  Schlegel,  and  for  Ger- 
man reasoners  in  general. 

(21)  The  historical  pictures  here  described  are  David's 
Brutus,  Drouet's  Mari  us,  and  Gerard's  Belisarius.    The 
Dido  is  by  Rehberg,  a  German  painter ;  Clorinda,  in  the 
gallery  of  Florence ;  Macbeth,  from  an  English  collection 
of  pi:tures  from  Shakspeare ;  the  Phedra  is  Guerin's ;  the 
two  landscapes  of  Cincinnati  and  Ossian  are  at  Rome; 
their  artist,  Mr.  WalHs.  an  Englishman. 

(22)  I  asked  a  little  Tuscan  girl  which  was  the  prettiest, 
her  sister  or  herself.    "  Ah,"  she  replied,  "  the  best  face  is 
mine." 

(23)  An  Italian  postilion,  beholding  his  horse  expire, 
prayed  for  him,  crying,  "St    Anthony,  have  pity  on  hU 
soul !" 

(24)  The  reader  who  wishes  to  know  more  of  the  Ro- 
man Carnival,  should  read  the  charming  description  of 
Goethe  ;  a  picture  faithful  as  it  is  animated. 

(25)  There  is  an  exquisite  account  of  the  lake  Albano, 
iu  a  collection   of  poems  by  Madame  Brur.n   (formerly 
Munter),  one  of  the  most  talented  and  imaginative  women 
of  her  country. 

(26)  Discourse  "  On  the  Duty  of  Children  to  the*  Pa- 
rents," by  M.  Jfecker.    See  note  19. 


172 


NOTES  TO  CORINNE  ;   OR,  ITALY. 


(27)  On  Indulgence.    The  same. 

(28)  Mr.  Elliot  saved  the  life  of  an  old  Neapolitan  in 
the  manner  attributed  to  Lord  Nelvil. 

(29)  This  name  must  not  be  confused  with  that  of  Go- 
rilla, an  Italian  improvisatrice.    The  Grecian  Corinnawas 
famed  for  lyric  poetry.    Pindar  himself  received  lessons 
from  her. 

(30)  An  old  tradition  supports  the  imaginative  prejudice 
which  persuaded  Corinne  that  the  diamond  could  forewarn 
its  wearer  of  the  giver's   treachery.    Frequent  allusions 
are  made  to  this  legend  by  Spanish  poets,  in  their  peculiar 
manner.    In  one  of  Calderon's  tragedies,  Ferdinand,  Prince 
of  Portugal,  prefers  death  in  chaius  before  the  crime  of 
surrendering  to  a  Moorish  king  the  Christian  city  which 
his  brother,  King  Edward,  oflers  for  his  ransom.     The 
Moor,  enraged  at  this  refusal,  subjects  the  noble  youth  to 
the  basest  ignominy.    Ferdinand,  in  reproof,  reminds  him 
that  mercy  and  generosity  are  the  truest  characteristics  of 
supreme  power     He  cites  all  that  is  royal  in  the  universe, 
—the  lion,  the  dolphin,  the  eagle  amid  animals;  and  seeks 
even  among  plants  and  stones  for  traits  of  natural  goodness, 
which  have  been  attributed  to  those  who  lord  it  ovtr  the 
rest.     Thus,  he  says,  the  diamond,  which  resists  the  blow 
of  steel,  resolves  itself  to  dust,  that  it  may  inform  its  mas- 
ter if  treason  threatens  him.     It  is  impossible  to  know 
whethei  <k*  mode  of  considering  all  nature  as  connected 
with  the  oeetiny  and  sentiments  of  man  is  mathematically 
correct ;  but  it  is  ever  pleasing  to  imagination ;  and  poetry, 
especially  that  of  Spain,  has  owed  it  many  great  beauties. 
Calderon  is  only  known  to  me  by  the  German  truislation 
of  Wilhetai  Schlegel ;   but  this  author,  one  of  his  own 
country's  finest  poets,  has  the  art  of  transporting  into 'his 
native  language,  with  the   rarest  perfection,  tlie   poetic 
graces  of  Spanish,  English,  and  Italian — giving  a  lively 
iiea  of  the  original,  be  it  what  it  may.         * 


each  country's  tragic  acting  with 


(31)  M.  Dubreuil,  a  very  skilful  French  physician,  fell 
ill  of  a  fatal  distemper.    His  popularity  filled  the  sick  room 
with  visitants.    Calling  to  his  intimate  friend,  M.  Peraeja, 
as  eminent  a  men  as  himself,  he  said,  trSend  away  all 
these  people;  you  know  my  fever  is  contagious ;  no  one 
but  yourself  ought  to  he  with  me  now."     Happy  the  friend 
who  ever  heard  such  words !    Pemeja  died  fifteen  daya 
after  his  heart's  brother. 

(32)  Among  the  comic  Italian  authors  who  have  de- 
scribed their  country's  manners,  must  be  reckoned  the  Che- 
valier Rossi,  a  Roman,  who  singularly  unitea  observation 
with  satire. 

(33)  Talmn,  having   passed   some  years  in  London, 
blended  the  charms  of  i 

admirable  talent. 

(34)  After  the  death  of  Dante,  the  Florentines,  ashamed 
of  havirig  permitted  him  to  perish  far  from  his  home,  sent 
a  deputation  to  the  pope  for  his  remains,  interred  at  Raven- 
na.   The  pope  refused;    rightly  deeming  that  the  land 
which  had  sheltered  him  in  exile  must  have  become  his 
country,  and  deserved  not  to  be  thus  robbed  of  the  glory 
that  shone  around  his  tomb. 

(35)  Alfieri  said,  that  it  was  in  the  church  of  Sanra 
Croce  he  first  felt  a  love  for  fame.    The  epitaph  he  com- 
posed for  himself  and  the  Countess  d' Albani  is  most  simply 
and  affectingly  expressive  of  long  and  perfect  friendship. 

(36)  It  was  announced  at  Bologna  that  a  solar  eclipec 
would  lake  place  one  day  at  two.  The  people  flocked  to  see 
it;  and,  impatient  at  its  delay,  called  on  it  to  begin,  as  if  M 
were  an  actor,  who  kept  them  waiting.    At  last  it  com- 
menced ;  but  as  the  cloudy  weather  prevented  its  producing 
any  great  effect,  they  set  up  the  most  violent  kissings 
angry  that  the  spectacle  fell  so  far  ihort  of  their  cxpecti- 


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